


Overwatch Prompts

by StarshipDancer



Series: Overwatch [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cuddling, Dancing, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Fluff, Foreshadowing, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know what I'm doing, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Negative Thoughts, Or Is It?, Overconfidence, Overwatch Retribution, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Pre-Recall, Sharing a Bed, Smut, Unrequited Love, Zenyatta is having none of genji's shit, mentions of pain, more tags to come, video games - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-06-15 07:57:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 59,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15408504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarshipDancer/pseuds/StarshipDancer
Summary: A collection of Overwatch prompts I get on tumblr!Marked as complete but will have new chapters as I get requests.McHanzo: Chapters 1, 4, 7, 8, 13, 17, 21, 23, 26, 28, 30, 31Genyatta: Chapters 2, 3, 12, 16, 19, 24, 27, 29, 32Reaper76: Chapters 6, 9, 10, 11, 14, 15, 18, 20, 22, 25





	1. McHanzo: Is there a reason you're naked in my bed?

**Author's Note:**

> anonymous asked: McHanzo + 6 :]
> 
> Oh gosh, okay. This is my first attempt at writing McHanzo, so let’s hope this goes well, shall we? (This kinda got away from me, but what else is new?)

When McCree woke up, he noticed three things.

First thing, he was hot. He could feel sweat beading along his back, and he tried to throw back the blanket in disgust. That didn’t work out too well for him, so he slumped back down against his pillow and grunted irritably.

That was where the second thing came in. As soon as he got over how damn hot he was, he realized he had the biggest hangover of his adult life. Life in general, had to be. His mouth was dryer than the desert, and his head was throbbing something awful. He tried to lift his arm to rub at the thumping in his temple, but then he realized he couldn’t move his arm. Somebody was laying on it.

That was the third thing. He wasn’t alone.

McCree opened an eye, wincing at the bright light coming through the window. As soon as he could see, he peered over at the hunk of muscle currently weighing down his flesh arm.

Hanzo slept there, his hair loose and splayed out on the pillow beneath him, a bit of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. He was wrapped tight around McCree, practically holding him down as he slept contentedly.

McCree didn’t know that Hanzo could look so… relaxed. Even when they met up to drink and bullshit about their latest missions, Hanzo always held an amount of rigidity in his posture. Always on edge, always prepared for a threat. McCree recognized it because he did the same thing.

But now… now the archer’s guard was down. Comfortable enough to snore lightly.

To say McCree had thought about this would be wrong. He hadn’t just though about this. He’d _fantasized_ about waking up with Hanzo next to him. Wrapped around him, trusting him enough to sleep well. Those thick, naked thighs wrapped around McCree—

Hold on.

Wait.

With his metal hand, McCree lifted the blanket. Dropped it back down. Lifted it up again. Yep. Sure enough, Hanzo was naked. Yeah, McCree was naked too, but _Hanzo was naked_. He gets _Hanzo_ in his _bed_ _naked_ and doesn’t remember a damn thing about it?

How much did he drink last night? Every time McCree thought about it, his head started to hurt, so he quit. He sighed deeply and tried to relax, at least get the pounding in his head to slow. He glanced over at his bedside table where he’d been smart enough to leave a glass of water and a bottle of pills in anticipation.

One-handed, real slow to keep from waking Hanzo yet, McCree reached over and picked up the bottle. It took a bit of finagling, but he managed to pop the cap off. He dumped a few pills out into his lap and put the bottle back, cap off, onto the table.

He washed the pills down with half the water and left the rest for Hanzo, just in case. He wasn’t sure if Hanzo’s headache would be as bad as McCree’s or if Hanzo would even accept the meds, but it was worth a shot.

Now that he felt a little less like shit, he might as well see what Hanzo remembered. _If_ he remembered. McCree prepared himself for one pissed off archer, just in case. He shook his arm a bit, felt Hanzo stir, and began to speak delicately.

“Hey. Hey, Hanzo?”

Hanzo grunted to let him know he was listening.

“Hanzo, **is there a reason you’re naked in my bed**?”

Hanzo hummed and tucked his head closer to McCree’s shoulder. “This is not your bed.”

McCree absorbed that. Glanced around the room. He could see his six-shooter on the table across the room, his serape hanging off a chair. A torn up Western book on the table by the water and pills.

“Nah, Hanzo, this is definitely my bed.”

“You are mistaken. Be still.”

McCree tried not to smile. He really did, but a grin had worked its way across his face over just how endearing Hanzo was. “Hanzo. Why’re you naked in my bed?”

“I told you, this is not your—” But then Hanzo stiffened. He bolted straight up, disentangling himself from McCree, and then wincing from what must’ve been a bitch of a hangover.

McCree shook him out a couple of pills and held them out. Hanzo took them and swallowed them dry before McCree could even offer the water. Still, Hanzo accepted the water and drained the rest of the glass, still looking a bit disoriented and more than a little confused.

After a moment, Hanzo concluded, “This is not my room.”

“Nope.”

Hanzo narrowed his eyes into an accusing glare. There was the anger McCree had been expecting. “Why am I naked in your bed?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, pal. I don’t remember much of anythin’ from last night.” Now that his arm was free, McCree sat up so he could work some of the blood back to his fingers. The blanket pooled around his hips, but he didn’t bother pulling it back up. They’d been cuddling _naked_ ; no point in bothering with modesty now.

Hanzo’s eyes strayed downward, and he swallowed. McCree definitely wasn’t imagining it; Hanzo was _blushing_ , all the way to his ears. Grinning, McCree stretched a little, showing off for his guest and enjoying far too much the way Hanzo’s eyes bugged at the sight.

Hell. McCree didn’t know what happened last night, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Where are my clothes?” Hanzo asked quietly.

McCree shrugged and fumbled around on his table for a smoke. Probably left them in his pants. The reach left a bit of his ass exposed, and when he turned back, Hanzo’s eyes shifted away guiltily. _Hell_.

“Beats me. The floor, maybe?”

Hanzo scoffed. “I would _never_ —”

“Yeah, and you’d prob’ly never wind up naked in somebody else’s bed either, but here we are.”

Hanzo huffed, clearly confused by the way his morning had gone. McCree could relate, but the cowboy was dealing with it a little better.

“All right, I’ll have a look around, see if I can find your clothes.” McCree got up and out of bed, rubbing at his head to fight off the last of the headache. He needed water and food and more meds.

McCree also needed to walk around naked just to see Hanzo tighten up like a bowstring and do his damnedest not to look. He wasn’t doing a very good job, either. He kept glancing up at McCree and then turning away immediately to collect himself.

Deciding to take pity on him, McCree went to the dresser first and pulled on a pair of sweatpants. Hanzo visibly relaxed, but he wouldn’t look McCree in the eye. He would, however, look at his pecs, so McCree wasn’t about to complain.

“I’m not findin’ any clothes,” McCree said after a minute. “Your clothes, my clothes—I’m not findin’ any of it.”

“That’s impossible,” Hanzo muttered, holding up the blanket so he could lean over and search the floor as well.

“Well, I ain’t lyin’ to ya!”

“I… never implied that you were,” Hanzo murmured, sounding tired. “I am simply… confused. You recall nothing from last night?”

“I remember drinkin’ in the rec room.” McCree stopped looking around so he could join Hanzo on the edge of the bed. “Everythin’ after that’s a bit of a blur. What about you?”

“That is all for me as well. We drank quite a bit.” Hanzo looked down at his lap, struggling. McCree decided to wait him out, see what he might have to say. “I… am not one to do this sort of thing.”

“Yeah, I didn’t reckon you were.” McCree almost put a hand on his shoulder but, given the circumstances, thought better of it. “Look, I don’t know what happened last night any more than you do, but I can’t say I didn’t like wakin’ up next to ya.”

Hanzo looked up at that, startled. McCree put on his most earnest face, trying to make sure that Hanzo knew how much he meant it. Hanzo squinted doubtfully, though, his mouth set in a stern, argumentative line.

“Come on, now. Don’t gimme that look. I mean it.” McCree looked away, rubbing at the back of his neck while he tried to decide if he wanted to put all of his cards on the table or let Hanzo walk out of his room thinking that this was all a mistake. “I’ve been wonderin’ how to get you in my bed for months now. I’ve just been too much of a chicken shit to do anythin’ about it.”

Hanzo’s expression slowly began to relax into something soft, so soft that McCree couldn’t believe he was seeing it. Hanzo leaned forward, upward, to press a chaste kiss to McCree’s lips. McCree sat stock still, afraid to move, afraid to disrupt this quiet moment. Hell, he was too afraid to kiss the man back, but Hanzo didn’t seem to offended.

He leaned back, smiling almost shyly. “I do not know if we got around to that last night.”

“I sure hope we did.” And McCree surged forward again, determined to kiss Hanzo as thoroughly as he deserved. By the way Hanzo reacted, he didn’t have a problem with that whatsoever.

Some time later, McCree gave Hanzo a pair of his sweat pants to wear and showed him to the door. Before Hanzo could slip away quietly, McCree grabbed his arm. Hanzo turned to him, head tilted curiously to the side.

“Darlin’, feel free to creep naked into my bed any time,” said McCree, finishing with a wink that he knew would make Hanzo blush—and he wasn’t disappointed.

He watched the archer slip away until he rounded the corner. Grinning like an idiot, he turned back around and nearly ran right int Genji. He couldn’t see Genji’s eyes, but he was getting a mighty judgmental feeling from behind that visor. He reached up to tip the hat he wasn’t wearing. Genji didn’t move to return the greeting.

“Uh, howdy, Genji,” McCree mumbled awkwardly.

“McCree,” replied Genji. “Was that my brother that just saw leave your room?”

McCree raised an eyebrow. “Uh—nope. Nope, wasn’t him. Must’ve been somebody else.”

“I see.” Genji nodded thoughtfully. Then he held out McCree’s cowboy hat. “This was on your door.”

“Oh! I, uh—thanks. Thanks. I should probably put this in a safe place.” With a tiny wave, McCree took his hat and fled back to his room.

Genji stood there for a moment, smugly watching the door McCree had disappeared behind. That plan worked much better than he’d anticipated. Maybe later he would return their clothes.


	2. Genyatta: You're the only one I trust to do this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: Overwatch? 24. “You’re the only one I trust to do this.” for Genji and Zenyatta.
> 
> How did you know that I thrive on Genji/Zenyatta? Idk if you want this to be like. Super shippy or what, but I guess we’ll see what happens?
> 
> 24\. “You’re the only one I trust to do this.”

The nightmares were bad. 

Even years after what had happened with his brother, Genji could still feel the pain of a blade slicing through his flesh, scoring him as one would score meat. Leaving him with white, hot pain and the warmth of blood seeping from him and leaving his body cold.

And the pain didn’t end there. Then there was the agony of machines replacing what had once been flesh. Warm was now ice cold. Freezing. Inhuman. 

 _Monster_. 

Genji shot up, feeling his body whir back to sudden life. It took him a moment to remember where he was.

The Monastary. Zenyatta. Yes, that was right. There was no immediate danger. No pain. At least, no pain _then_. Just memories and dreams to plague even his restful hours.

Genji didn’t necessarily _need_ to sleep, but he liked to. He enjoyed doing things now that he could once do when he was human. Completely human. Not this half-flesh _thing_ that he’d been sentenced to exist as.

Genji sighed, frustrated with himself. Zenyatta had been _trying_ to teach him how to better reconcile with who and what he was now, but Genji found it still… difficult to accept. How could he look at these hands and see anything but machine? How could he accept that he was anything other than unnatural?

Zenyatta was always so determined, though. So _certain_ that Genji was more than what he believed. That he was more than a machine of war. More than his pain.

Genji didn’t know what to believe.

He stood up from the cot and stretched limbs that didn’t need to be stretched. Rolled shoulders that didn’t need rolled. Keeping up the illusion. Pretending to be somewhat human when he felt anything but.

Genji wandered through the monastery. He and Zenyatta had been traveling, seeing the world that Zenyatta encouraged was still worth seeing. A world of nothing but war and death, but Zenyatta disagreed. The omnic was always so optimistic. So _positive_ about everything around him—nature, humanity, omnics, Genji. He was always so positive about Genji.

Seemed to believe that Genji was worth it.

Genji found Zenyatta outside, meditating by moonlight. Orbs hovered all around him, casting sweet shadows on the ground behind him. Sometimes spinning, humming mechanically. The sound soothed Genji, and he felt some of the stress fall away from his shoulders.

For a long moment, Genji did not say anything. He didn’t want to disturb the peace, the beautiful peace that Zenyatta always seemed to radiate. Genji watched him, mesmerized, wishing he could be so calm.

“You seem troubled, my student,” came Zenyatta’s gentle voice. Genji started momentarily, unprepared to be addressed so suddenly. He took a deep sigh before he sat down beside his mentor.

“I could not sleep,” he confessed eventually, his voice quiet to the night.

“Are your dreams disrupting your slumber again?”

“Yes.” Genji took a deep breath. “I can see my brother. I can feel his blade and the… the pain. My last moments of being human.”

“You are still human, Genji.”

Genji failed to fight back the scoff. “Barely. If this is what you call human.”

Zenyatta didn’t say anything. His orbs spun contemplatively. “You have a question to ask me?”

Genji shifted under the weight of expectation. It felt familiar. He remembered the expectations of the clan, of his brother.

But Zenyatta was different. He brought silence to the storm raging within Genji, brought light to the dark hatred toward Hanzo—toward _himself_. Toward what he had become. He didn’t place any unwanted expectations on Genji. If Genji did not want to ask, he did not have to.

Genji wanted to ask the question.

“I cannot sleep without these nightmares plaguing me. I feel unsafe. Would you… watch over me as I sleep?”

Zenyatta turned his head to look at him but said nothing. Genji took the silence as instruction to carry on.

“This is not an easy thing for me to ask. I do not wish to inconvenience you, but… **you are the only one I trust to do this.** ” Genji lifted his head to meet Zenyatta’s gaze, brilliant lights that warmed the ice within Genji’s veins. “Will you do this for me, master?”

“I would be honored,” said Zenyatta, sounding as awed as Genji felt.

Genji murmured a quiet thanks and stood to lead Zenyatta back to his room. Zenyatta followed silently, but Genji didn’t need him to say anything. That was Genji’s favorite thing about Zenyatta: the omnic didn’t need to speak for Genji to hear him.

When they got to Genji’s room, Genji looked around for a spot to make Zenyatta comfortable, but before he could make any suggestions, Zenyatta took up a spot beside the window, facing Genji’s bed and basking in the moonlight again. The sight stole Genji’s breath, and he couldn’t help but feel like he wasn’t this important. _This_ deserving of Zenyatta’s attention.

A cool hand on his cheek drew Genji’s attention away from his negative thoughts. Zenyatta was closer now, staring at him levelly. Genji didn’t move, didn’t dare to, helpless to the tranquility he felt from Zenyatta’s presence.

“Stay with me, Genji,” Zenyatta requested, almost pleaded, and Genji closed his eyes against the devotion he felt from his master. _For_ his master. He felt the weight from his past begin to lift, replaced with the peace he always envied of his mentor.

Genji placed a hand over Zenyatta’s and nodded. “Forgive me for straying.”

“I could still reach you,” said Zenyatta good-naturedly.

“I would never go where you could not.”

Zenyatta did not say anything, but Genji got the feeling that his mentor was pleased. He returned to his cot, and Zenyatta returned to his spot by the window to begin meditating again. Genji shut his eyes, listened to the pleasant sound of Zenyatta’s orbs.

And he slept better that night than he had since he’d been completely human.


	3. Genyatta: I swear it was an accident.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mypawsonfire asked: Genji/Zenyatta. 42."I swear it was an accident."

Zenyatta loved to dance.

He would meditate for long, pensive moments, quiet save for the faint tinkling from his orbs. Then, after so long of sitting motionless and silent, he would begin to move, his orbs following the motions of his hands with such grace, such poignant beauty that anyone passing by would pause and marvel at the mesmerizing omnic. Zenyatta never noticed, never hesitated for even a moment to acknowledge his audience. He simply continued dancing to a tune only he could hear.

Zenyatta _loved_ to dance.

 _Genji_ loved to _watch_.

If Zenyatta was dancing, his student was nearby, observing quietly from behind a pillar or building or whatever cover he could find to keep from being detected. It wasn’t that Genji worried that Zenyatta would be mad or upset at being watched so closely (Zenyatta, in fact, often encouraged observation for Genji to better find inner peace). It was Genji’s own shame that kept him hidden, his own worries that perhaps he was not watching only to discover inner peace but for other, more… selfish reasons.

Genji loved to watch because he didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more beautiful.

And Genji had known beauty. Before he met Zenyatta, before Blackwatch, before his brother—beauty had been so simple. _Beauty_ meant women, their lips coated in red and their eyes alight with seduction, or men with smooth skin that made even _smoother_ sounds. _Beauty_ had been Hanzo, his chin raising in pride when his arrow hit the middle of its target. _Beauty_ had been Genji, whose skin had once been unblemished with scars, when he had been whole.

After, beauty had been in the easy way bodies fell to his blade. Bad people, he’d been told. Omnics. Those who opposed Overwatch and harmed the innocent. _Beauty_ had been the lives they had saved. _Beauty_ had been the pain because it had been worth it, so he’d thought.

But then he’d met Zenyatta. Then he saw his master dance, and he knew beauty again. _True beauty_ , for the first time, and now he knew fear. Not fear like what he felt the night his brother slew him, not the fear of death.

The fear of _loss_. If Zenyatta knew and realized that his reasons weren’t honorable, then he might dismiss Genji as a failure. The idea of losing his master terrified him more than he would have ever imagined.

So he stayed hidden, stealing glances at Zenyatta’s elegant movements when he could.

Today, he was hiding behind a pillar at the monastery they were visiting. He could easily crouch between the column and the table beside it, the smoke from a stick of burning incense providing him perfect cover. He could see Zenyatta, his healing orbs glowing with golden light as he moved elegantly. High, sweeping turns—sharp, abrupt stops—movements all flowing into each other with a precision Genji had only seen with a blade. Genji, enthralled, leaned an elbow on the table, smiling as he watched those easy motions, wishing _he_ could do that. Wishing _he_ could dance with Zenyatta.

Genji’s arm slipped, his elbow knocking right into the incense burner. It clattered to the floor, the burning stick rolling along the stone until the dirt put out the thin line of smoke. Genji hissed a quiet curse in his native tongue. Of all the stupid—

Years of working in Blackwatch alerted Genji to the eyes on him, and his gaze immediately snapped up. Zenyatta, having stopped dancing, had turned around to face him, a curious tilt to his head. Genji swallowed his nerves, his _guilt_ at being caught, and tried his best to make light of the situation.

“ **I swear it was an accident.** I am not trying to burn the monastery down, I promise.”

It must have worked because Zenyatta’s titillating laughter filled the hollow room. Genji watched him, smiling softly as his master raised a hand to his mouth to try and stay the noise.

“That would have been a very poor attempt, if you were.” Zenyatta calmed himself and looked serenely at Genji, who got the distinct feeling that Zenyatta was smiling at him. “Were you spying on me, my student?”

“What reason would I have to spy?” Genji asked.

“That is what I am trying to discern,” Zenyatta replied pleasantly. “If you wish to watch me dance, you do not need to continue hiding.”

Genji began to fidget. He walked out from behind the pillar to face his mentor and accept his fate. “You… you knew when I would watch you?”

“Always.” Zenyatta beckoned him closer, and Genji obeyed, choosing to sit on the floor before him. Zenyatta lowered himself to sit with him, still maintaining that calm that Genji wished he could exhibit. “Why do you hide? Do you no longer wish to meditate with me?”

Genji heard the melancholy in his master’s voice, and he began to reach out, only just catching himself before he could touch Zenyatta. “Of course I do! Meditating with you is one of my favorite things to do.”

Zenyatta reached out to take Genji’s hand, holding it as carefully as he might hold a child’s doll. Genji took a deep breath, feeling some of the weight lift from his shoulders. “Then please, explain.”

This was it. The moment Genji had been dreading. He took a deep breath and spilled his secret, prepared to accept the consequences. He would rather do that than lie to Zenyatta, betray the trust he had been given so willingly.

“My motives for watching you are selfish, so I tried to hide. Forgive me for spying on you.”

“How are your motives selfish, my student?” Zenyatta asked, genuinely confused.

“I… enjoy watching you dance,” Genji confessed shamefully. He lowered his voice, hoping Zenyatta wouldn’t hear when he added, “I think it’s beautiful.”

Zenyatta was quiet for a long moment. His orbs whirred, spinning with his thoughts, and Genji wondered where those thoughts were leading him, what conclusions he would arrive at. He didn’t have to wait long before Zenyatta straightened, full of purpose and a certain excitement that made Genji’s heart clench.

“Would you dance with me?”

“I—I don’t know how to dance,” said Genji, knowing very well how to dance. He used to dance all the time, when he was young and immature. He couldn’t show Zenyatta this kind of dancing, not when Zenyatta had such poise and skill.

“Neither do I,” Zenyatta confessed, sounding a bit mournful.

“But that’s not true! I’ve watched you! The way you dance is remarkable!” Genji insisted with such passion, that Zenyatta chuckled again.

“Simply by accident, my student. All I do is move the way I feel I should move after meditating. I focus on within and find rhythm there.” Zenyatta motioned to the empty room, to the open space. Genji followed with his eyes but did not move. “Would you try with me?”

“Very well.”

“We shall begin with meditating.” Zenyatta drifted to the middle of the room once more, beckoning Genji along with him. Genji sat with him, cross-legged, and closed his eyes. He tried to clear his mind, to focus within as Zenyatta advised.

But Genji’s thoughts would not dispel. He could not stop thinking about Zenyatta and dancing and embarrassing himself—

Before he knew it, he could hear it: the tell-tale sound of Zenyatta dancing. Genji opened his eyes to see Zenyatta entirely absorbed into his movement, his orbs glowing, his movements containing a serenity Genji hadn’t known for years. Since he was—

Since he was _whole_.

Genji quit trying to meditate and stood up. He reached behind him and unsheathed his sword. If Zenyatta heard him, he didn’t give any indication; he just kept dancing, trusting, _knowing_ that Genji was incapable of ever doing him any harm.

He took a few steps back, giving them both equal space, and shut his eyes. Instead of finding rhythm within himself, Genji followed that which Zenyatta had set. He moved with him, giving in to the natural way his legs wished to carry him, using his sword the way that Zenyatta used his orbs. He let his movements flow like Zenyatta’s, let the peace surround him until he completely forgot he was dancing.

Until he felt the dragon within him surging to life, eager to join in. He began to slow his movements, unwilling to endanger his master, and opened his eyes.

Through the green energy of Genji’s dissipating dragon, he could see Zenyatta. The omnic had stopped dancing and simply stood there, watching Genji with something akin to wonder. The same expression, Genji realized, that _Genji_ wore when he observed Zenyatta.

Then Zenyatta’s orbs began to turn in pure happiness, his voice warm as he whispered, “ _Beautiful_.”


	4. McHanzo: Please don't do this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> camilahellsing asked: Maybe Mchanzo in 33 "please, don't do this" ?

Hanzo was bleeding. He kept his hand pressed to the bullet wound in his left side and breathed evenly. His knees shook, but he did not falter to his knees. He would not die on his knees like a dog. He would go down fighting, as he had always intended.

He’d never had any real expectations for _how_ he would die, but he couldn’t think of anything more undignified than getting cornered by a bunch of unskilled Talon soldiers. This wouldn’t have even happened if he’d been paying attention to his surroundings instead of letting himself get distracted by—

Well. By _whom_ or _what_ no longer mattered. He was going to be dead in a few minutes.

“Hanzo! Hanzo, where are you? I lost visual.” Even accompanied by static, McCree’s voice still made Hanzo’s breath catch. That deep, wonderful drawl, trembling with concern for _him_ , would be one of the last things he heard.

Good.

“I’m cornered,” Hanzo replied, releasing his side momentarily to reach for an arrow. His arm trembled, but still he persisted. If he was lucky, he could fire off one last dragonstrike. To feel his dragons surging from his body the same moment his life left him—well, that would be an honorable way to go. If he even _deserved_ such an honor.

The guns were pointed at him, about to fire. One of the Talon soldiers was speaking into a comm, and Hanzo felt a light surge of panic. If he was still alive, then that meant that they might try to take him with them.

Hanzo would _not_ be turned into a brainwashed puppet for Talon.

“Where are you?!” McCree demanded, his voice raising to the point where Hanzo actually winced. Blood seeped down his side, thick droplets tickling his knee as they caught in his leg hairs. “Gimme your position, and I’ll be there!”

“You will not arrive in time,” Hanzo debated determinedly. He held up his bow and attempted to nock the arrow. The guns still pointed at him, the Talon soldiers pressing closer to intimidate him. Fools! Didn’t they know that a dragon could not so easily be swayed?

It did not matter if one or all of them fired at him at once. He would loose his arrow sooner, and—

“I don’t give a damn! Where the hell are you?” McCree yelled, his voice too loud and too raw. Hanzo pressed his lips into a fine line, trying to keep his emotions in check. His weakness for McCree plagued him still, even in his final moments.

“I may be able to use my dragonstrike one more time, but I fear I will be shot down upon firing,” he began to mutter, trying his best to be discrete. The pain was unbearable; he could still feel the bullet, though he was sure it had exited his body. He swayed, his vision blurring, but he gritted his teeth against that agony. Used it to keep him focused.

“ _No_. That ain’t—don’t you fuckin’ _dare_ , Hanzo! I’m comin’ to find you!” McCree was running; Hanzo could hear the bounce in his voice, the shortness of breath from the exertion, from the panic. McCree was running, trying to find him. He would be too late.

“ **Please don’t do this** ,” Hanzo murmured, weakening at the sound of how affected he’d made the cowboy. He swallowed around the regret bubbling up his throat. Months of dancing around each other, the whisper of something between them would amount to nothing now. He steeled himself against the onslaught of emotions. “Don’t let this be the last thing I hear.”

McCree growled something that Hanzo didn’t understand and then fell silent. Hanzo waited, hopeful, but accepted that he would be getting nothing else from McCree. Just as he was about to whisper his name, the Talon soldier stepped forward, apparently done communicating with his leader.

“Agent Shimada, our boss has taken a special interest in you. If you lower your weapon and agree to come with us, you won’t be harmed any further. What’s it gonna be?” he demanded loudly. The rest of the soldiers shifted restlessly, expecting a fight. Hanzo would give them one.

“Over my dead body,” he snarled, pulling back the arrow and taking aim. The dragons would leave no quarter.

They would all die in this alley. Hanzo would make sure of it.

“Hey, Hanzo?” McCree’s voice sounded in his ear again, now with less interference. He was closer. How close? “How’re these for last words?”

Hanzo’s face scrunched up, confused. He did not have time for this! He had to use his remaining energy to shoot his—

“ _It’s high noon_!”

Hanzo heard the rapid gunshots, but he didn’t believe this was actually happening. The Talon soldiers dropped, and then he had a clear view of McCree. He looked… he looked _wonderful_. Serape billowing, violent and red like the blood draining from his wound—

With a breathless laugh, Hanzo dropped his bow, allowing it to clatter loudly to the ground. Hanzo began to follow it, but McCree caught him before his knees could hit gravel. McCree cradled him close, quickly putting pressure on the still-bleeding wound. Hanzo’s eyes rolled dizzily as he tried to focus on McCree, on what he was yelling. Even when McCree was shouting profanities at him, Hanzo couldn’t help but appreciate his voice.

“I love listening to you speak,” Hanzo murmured, tasting iron in his mouth. Still, he managed a somewhat delirious smile. McCree must not have like the looks of it because his expression grew grave. “I am glad you are here, Jesse.”

“Mercy’s on her way. You’re gonna be _fine_ , Hanzo. You hear me? _You’re gonna be fine_!”

“I am—I am listening.” Hanzo could still listen with his eyes closed, and he was so exhausted. The strain of holding up his bow for so long had taken its toll on him. He dropped his head onto McCree’s shoulder, breathing in the almost overwhelming smell of tobacco long-soaked deep into McCree’s serape.

“ _Shit_ , Hanzo, open your eyes! Hanzo!” McCree sounded gutted, but Hanzo could not find the strength to wonder why. He was drifting, falling, clinging only to the sound of McCree’s voice, so ragged with uncontrollable emotion.

Suddenly, Hanzo was being shaken, forced back into consciousness. He winced against the pain and muttered low, Japanese curses at McCree’s roughness. McCree choked on a laugh and dug his flesh fingertips into Hanzo’s wound.

“I ain’t lettin’ go of you yet, Shimada. You’re gonna stick around. For a long time. You hear me? I ain’t lettin’ you go!”

Hanzo hissed, reaching down to grab McCree’s hand. He intended to yank it away, but he only ended up clutching McCree’s fingers instead. Angrily, he looked up into McCree’s eyes and squeezed his hand hard.

“You swear?” he rasped, demanding.

McCree bent forward, his hat tipping back as it encountered the top of Hanzo’s head. As McCree grew closer, Hanzo felt his breath catch, his head filling with the possibilities of what McCree’s intentions might be.

But McCree only pressed his forehead to Hanzo’s, breathing in the same air as him, fingers still digging into his wound as if the pain would be enough to keep Hanzo grounded to this world. Hanzo thought that it actually might be. That, and the heat of McCree’s breath ghosting out over his cheeks. Hanzo shut his eyes against the sudden tenderness which, coupled with the harsh press of McCree’s hand, overwhelmed his senses.

“That gonna work if I say yes? That you’re gonna have a hard time getting’ ridda me after this?”

Hanzo hummed. “I already _do_ have a hard time.”

“I’m gonna be worse.” McCree slowly began to move back, giving Mercy space as she flew to them. She began to peel McCree’s hand away from the wound, muttering about causing more damage, but Hanzo could hardly hear her. He could only focus on McCree, the ghost of his warmth keeping the cold at bay.

“I am prepared for that,” Hanzo told him seriously, feeling the pain beginning to ease now that Mercy was working her magic. His eyes were drifting, now allowed to rest. He knew that when he awoke, he would be back at the Watchpoint.

The squeeze of McCree’s hand around his was the promise that Hanzo wouldn’t be alone.


	5. Shimada Bros: If you die, I'm going to kill you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: 44. If you die, I'm going to kill you. Do the dragon bros. Do it.

Growing up, Hanzo was much better than his brother at most things. He was better at discipline. Responsibility. Restraint. He did not give in to the frivolous things that his brother did, such as games and parties and disobedience. Hanzo was am _heir_ , trained and raised perfectly, unlike his brother. Hanzo was _better_.

Better with a sword. With a bow. At sneaking, undetected, and remaining unnoticed. _Better_.

Certainly, some of that had changed over the course of ten years. The time spent with Overwatch and with Zenyatta had changed Genji incredibly. No longer was he the undisciplined, wasteful youth that Hanzo had once known. He was a skilled ninja, capable of things Hanzo would have never dreamed for him, and he had discovered an inner peace that Hanzo envied.

Still. There was no skill that Hanzo ever believed that his brother was better at.

Hanzo had been wrong.

**“If you die, I am going to kill you.”**

Hanzo scoffed, the threat doing nothing to intimidate him. He flexed his hands around the controller, testing the unfamiliar weight, and ignored the giggles from Hana and Lucio. This could not be so difficult, not if Genji found it so easy to play.

Not that Hanzo had much experience with video games. Genji had always been the one to indulge in such a useless pastime, but Hanzo had observed enough to be certain that this must be a simple victory.

“I mean it,” Genji warned again, speaking into Hanzo’s ear as if that might keep Hana and Lucio from hearing. “McCree and I have been reigning champions for three weeks now. He will blame me if we lose. We must not lose.”

“This cannot be as important as you are making it,” said Hanzo, frowning at the serious expression on Genji’s face. He was still not accustomed to seeing his brother without the visor—to be fair, he wasn’t accustomed to seeing him _with_ the visor, either—so he did his best not to stare.

He looked instead to Lucio, who was waiting patiently, bopping to a beat Hanzo could only imagine. He did not look afraid or concerned; instead, he wore a confident smile while Hana whispered excitedly into his ear. Lucio did not appear to be treating this game as such a serious matter, though Hanzo realized that could mean anything.

Lucio always looked casual; even amidst a mission where one of them could die at any moment, Lucio was always smiling, always at ease. Hanzo considered this aspect of him very dangerous.

“You are right,” Genji agreed solemnly. “This is _more_ serious. You must understand that this is _war_ , and McCree and I have worked very hard to remain victorious. You. Cannot. Lose!”

“Genji, be still. I am positive that this will be a very quick match.” Hanzo gave the nod to Lucio that he was fully prepared. Lucio, beaming, locked in his character.

Genji covered his face with his hands. “That’s what I’m afraid of….”

Hanzo stared at the roster, his mouth pressed into a tight line. From what he understood, each character had different abilities, each with their strengths and weaknesses. Hanzo knew what none of these were, who the best combatant would be against Lucio’s choice.

It was no matter. Hanzo knew what he was doing. He chose a character, while the screen faded black to load the match, Hanzo looked over the controller again. Each button did something important, Genji had quickly explained. Except the _X_ button; this button only made Hanzo’s character use _block_ , which Genji had assured him was a useless skill and a waste of time.

Piece of cake.

“Ready to lose, Shimada?” Hana taunted, more to Genji than to Hanzo. She could probably sense that this meant much more to Genji.

Genji swallowed audibly, effectively intimidated. He gave Hanzo a wild look. “Please, brother. You only have to ever do this one thing for me, and I will never ask you for another thing!”

Hanzo scoffed. “Unrealistic. You will be back tomorrow with another favor.”

“Not if you die,” Genji warned, that low threat back in his voice. Hanzo rolled his eyes.

The screen loaded, bright colors blossoming to life accompanied by tense battle music, followed by a short countdown, and then—

Well, Hanzo had been right about one thing. It was a _very_ quick match.


	6. Reaper76 (Part One): Boo/I thought you were dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sparehufflepuff asked: "Boo" and "I thought you were dead". Reaper76

_Jack took aim at the training bot, entirely focused. It was late, and he was still running high on adrenaline from today’s mission against the omnics. He took a deep breath, about to shoot, when two arms wrapped around him._

_“ **Boo**!” _

_Jack responded instinctively, trying to throw what he perceived as an attacker, but he was pinned to the ground before he could get a proper hold on his enemy. He stared up into familiar brown eyes and felt his body begin to react. Gabriel grinned down at him, pleased to have caught him off guard, but Jack just gave him a stern look._

_“You know better than to sneak up on an armed man. I could’ve shot you!”_

_“Nothing Angela wouldn’t be able to fix up,” Gabe said, shrugging with nonchalance, still wearing that infuriating smile. Jack wanted to lean up and bite at it._

_“And then we would’ve had to explain_ again _why I put a bullet in you.” Jack tried to sit up, but Gabe leaned more weight on him to keep him down. Jack relaxed, accepting this, and waited for Gabe to be done with him (though he knew from experience that this could take some time). “You’re going to make people wonder why you stay with somebody who hurts you so often.”_

_“It’s none of their business. Besides, it’s not that often.”_

_“Just when you sneak up on me.” Jack couldn’t help smiling a little. If Gabe was sneaking up on him, that must mean that it was time to leave the training center and let his partner unwind him instead. Gabriel’s methods were, admittedly, much more effective than shooting at training bots. “Did you finish lecturing McCree?”_

_Gabe rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about that right now.”_

_“Oh, it went that well?” Jack smirked at the sound of his partner’s scoff. “Okay, fine. What do you want to talk about?”_

_Gabriel braced himself above Jack and leaned down closer, his breath warm against Jack’s cheeks. Jack’s eyes began to slide closed in anticipation, and he could all but taste Gabriel’s next words. “Now, Strike Commander Morrison… Who said anything about talking?”_

Soldier: 76 jerked awake, the memory of Gabriel’s lips on his own a ghost in the night. He sat up, grunting as the weight of his rifle shifted on his shoulder, leaving soreness in its wake. He felt bone-weary and exhausted, more in his mind than anything, and the last thing he’d needed was the tease of the past depriving him of restless slumber.

The skies of Dorado were dark and clear, cloudlessness giving way to the glory of the half-moon. He wasn’t sure why he was still here, save for lack of direction. He had no destination, no _ambitions_ for a destination, and wandering for so long had begun to take its toll on him.

Not to mention lack of a proper bed.

76 stood up, his joints cracking from the uncomfortable position, and turned to glare at the alley corner he’d been resting in. Already, he couldn’t believe he’d managed even a few hours of sleep in such an uncomfortable spot. Years on the road would do that to you, he supposed.

He began to walk toward the alley entrance, pausing once to stare at the old, tattered Overwatch ad, crinkling at the corners and threatening to fall away. He stared at the blond centered in the poster, long coat billowing in a moment of wind. A hero, urging people to join.

 _A joke_.

76 grabbed the poster and ripped it from the stone, tore it to pieces, and tossed it to the gravel, making sure to step on the shreds on his way out. There was no need for an advertisement anymore. Overwatch was _dead_ , and it should stay _dead_.

The same way the blond man on the poster should have stayed dead.

76 was tired. _So tired_. He slouched as he walked, not too sure where his feet were carrying him and too damn drained to care. His pulse rifle was so heavy—it was a part of him now, and leaving it behind would be akin to suffocating. He didn’t think he knew how to breathe without it anymore.

Maybe the day would come when someone would take it from him, and he could stop. Stop breathing, stop _wandering_ , endlessly, pointlessly.

Alone. That was his penance. He deserved this.

At least, that was what 76 kept telling himself to keep his feet moving, one step at a time.

76 shouldn’t have been traveling when he was so tired, though. Not when he had to struggle to keep his eyes open, let alone pay attention to his surroundings. He kept to the alleyways, to the shadows, in search for another spot to rest his eyes.

He was so tired, he didn’t notice the footsteps behind him. Several sets moving quietly, accustomed to the streets of Dorado in a way that 76 was not. Just a few thugs, but ones that had the element of surprise.

The moment he realized he was being followed, the gang struck, knocking him from his feet and kicking away his rifle. He rolled away from an oncoming boot aimed at his stomach and reached for his gun, only for a foot to come down on his hand. He ground his teeth against the pain and glared up at the man.

“Nice gun you got there, old man,” the thug said thoughtfully, his eyes straying from 76 to the pulse rifle.

76 scoffed. “That’s not a gun you could handle, punk.”

“I don’t really think that’s any of your concern anymore. Right, boys?”

76 glanced over his shoulder, taking stock. There were four of them, including the asshole stepping on his hand, and 76 didn’t have his gun. Only a slight disadvantage.

He grabbed the thug’s ankle and squeezed until he stepped back, and then 76 was on his feet. Almost immediately, the other three were on him, knives flying out to find purchase in his flesh. He deflected the first, redirecting it to plunge into his friend’s gut. The injured one dropped his knife, and 76 rolled to grab it. In the process, he crashed into the third thug, dropping him to the ground, and plunged his newly acquired blade into his chest. The kid groaned in pain, blood gurgling up to his lips, but 76 didn’t stay to watch the light leave his eyes.

By now, the first thug had recovered and started toward him, knife raised and red with his companion’s blood. 76 caught his wrist, bending it back until he dropped the weapon, and fell him to the gravel with a few choice punches to his gut.

Then he turned, his eyes finding the barrel of his own gun pointed to his face. The leader had foregone his thugs in favor of 76’s weapon, and Soldier realized it didn’t matter if the kickback knocked him to the ground. That wouldn’t keep 76 from eating bullets, not at this range.

Did 76 have any regrets? A few. Dying in a dirty alleyway in Dorado was definitely one of them, but he didn’t feel like he had any control over his fate. Not anymore.

He glared at his pulse rifle, his mind straying to his memory in what he thought would be his last moments. To the taste of Gabriel’s laugh on his tongue, the feel of his hands carding through his blond hair. To the sounds of his taunts as he snuck up behind him, risked getting _shot_ just to get Jack in his arms.

Gabriel. _Gabriel_ was his one regret, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

The thug smirked, having seen 76’s resignation. His finger moved toward the trigger. Then—

“ **Boo!** ”

The thug dropped, his neck snapped, and 76 caught his rifle. He rolled and aimed at the new arrival, his heart thundering at the sight of the Reaper. The wraith wasted no time in pulling out his shotguns, ready for the impending fight that 76 was anticipating.

Something kept him from firing outright, though, and led him, instead, to lowering his gun. He stared up at Reaper, who was regarding him curiously with aim that did not falter.

“Why?” 76 demanded tiredly.

“Maybe I want to be the one who ends you,” Reaper growled, his voice sliding over 76 and making him shiver. Reaper sounded nothing like Gabriel, far too brash, too guttural. Then again, 76 doubted like he sounded much like _Strike Commander Morrison_ , either.

76 slumped back against the wall, his rifle resting in his lap. “Well, here’s your chance. Go for it.”

“You’re not going to fight me?” Reaper asked, mildly disappointed.

“Tired of fighting.” 76 was just tired in general. He didn’t want to fight Reaper, not with the memory of who was behind that mask still so fresh in his mind.

Reaper cautiously lowered his shotguns. “I’ve waited a long time to kill you, and you’re taking the fun out of it. What’s wrong with you? I’ve never known _Strike Commander Morrison_ to take it lying down. Outside of the bedroom, that is.”

76 stared up at him, frustrated at the familiarity of this conversation. Gabriel would’ve said the same thing to him—probably _had_ , in fact—and just then, he couldn’t take it. Not with the night he’d been having. He reached up and removed his visor, blinking to reacclimate to the world without the red, and dropped it to his side.

“Was it all so bad?” he asked, weary. When Reaper tilted his head to the side, 76 gestured between the two of them. “Before it all went wrong, was it all really _that bad_?”

Reaper stared at him for a long moment. 76 couldn’t see his eyes, but he could _feel_ them scrutinizing him cautiously. Like this was all a trick, and 76 was about to start firing any minute. Deliberately, 76 took his hand off his gun and let it fall to his side, a mirror of the one still holding the visor.

A long time ago, he never would’ve thought twice about being so vulnerable in the presence of Gabriel Reyes, but this was no longer the Gabriel he had once known. Then again, the same could be said for 76.

Finally, Reaper snarled, low and angry, “Why didn’t you look for me?”

“ **I thought you were _dead_**!” 76 glared up at him, fire rising up within him. Tossing his gun to his side, he stood up, pointing an accusing finger at Reaper. “You think I wouldn’t have looked for you if I had any idea you were alive? Do you really think so little of me, Reyes?!”

Reaper took a step back, having not expected his outburst. He dropped his guns, his breath a rumble of fury as he rose to the challenge. He grabbed 76 by the front of his jacket and shoved him up against the wall, almost knocking the wind right out of him. “You really expect me to believe you didn’t know? Don’t make me laugh, Jack.”

76 reached up to grab Reaper’s wrists, squeezing them tightly and hating how familiar this all felt. He couldn’t get his head out of the past tonight, so it only felt natural to yank Reaper just a little closer. He stared into the face of the mask, trying to imagine those big, brown eyes that Jack used to stare into for hours.

“Jack Morrison died the same day that Gabriel Reyes did.”

Reaper released a long, heavy breath that 76 almost took for a sigh of relief. He leaned forward, pressing in on 76 and boxing him in. 76 should’ve felt threatened, caged, but he didn’t. He actually felt like he could breathe for the first time in _years_.

“Jack.” Reaper was close, too close, all 76 could do was try to pull him closer. “Close your eyes.”

76 thought to argue. He _should’ve_ argued. This was _Reaper_ , his enemy, who he should’ve been fighting with. Instead, they were having a heart-to-heart chat, and _now_ he was being asked to give trust he didn’t think Reaper had truly earned.

76 didn’t argue. He shut his eyes and waited. For what, he wasn’t sure, but he was so _tired_. Too tired to argue. Too tired to do anything but stand there and take whatever Reaper intended to give him.

What he _hadn’t_ been expecting, however, was a kiss.

Reaper’s mouth was cold and aggressive, not warm and soft as 76 remembered. 76 grabbed his shoulder, thinking he should push him away, but only yanked him closer. He pulled Reaper’s icy body tight against his and took everything he could get.

And he got _so much_. 76 had forgotten just how aggressive Gabriel could be, how dominating, and how _desperate_ for it 76 had been. 76 was pliant, caught between the wall and a hard place and pretty sure there was no other spot he’d rather be.

When Reaper pulled away, he reached up to cover 76’s eyes with one black-gloved hand. “I don’t want you to see me.”

“I let you see me, and I look like shit.”

Reaper scoffed. “I look _worse_.”

“I don’t care. I want to see you.”

“What makes you think I care what you want?”

“You never change,” said 76, realizing all at once the truth of that statement.

Reaper disagreed. “Maybe I’ve changed too much.”

All at once, 76 was alone. He opened his eyes to see Reaper bending to pick up his shotguns, his mask back in place and leaving 76 with a pang of bitter emptiness. He didn’t move, just watched Reaper stow away his weapons and turn slowly back to him.

“You’d better be ready next time we meet, Jack. I won’t spare you again.”

76 bent to retrieve his own mask, sliding it back into place. “Maybe you should try sneaking up on me. That always worked _so well_ for you, Gabe.”

Reaper laughed, a low, ominous noise that rubbed 76 in all the right ways. 76 had to fight the urge to go toward him again.

But then Reaper was gone, leaving 76 completely alone, save for the dead thugs who had picked a fight with the wrong man. With a chuckle of his own, 76 reached down to pick up his rifle, less tired, less breathless now. He glanced over the bodies, a smirk on his lips as he shouldered his rifle and began walking again.

Stupid punks. If only they’d known that 76 had a ghost on his trail, and that ghost would stop at nothing to keep the soldier all to himself.


	7. McHanzo: Can that sort of thing be done in a car?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dangcommaannie asked: McHanzo + 12! :D
> 
> 12\. “Can that sort of thing be done in a car?"

 “God-fuckin’-dammit!” Jesse all but snarled, slamming his hands down on the steering wheel. Hanzo did not start at his sudden outburst, simply glanced over at him and raised an eyebrow. Jesse curled his fingers around the wheel and tried to rein in his anger.

It wasn’t working. If anything, the act of sitting stationary and taking in his surroundings only pissed him off more.

They were _so close_ to being back at the safehouse. So _fuckin’_ close, and they just _had_ to get stuck in the fucking snow.

It wasn’t that McCree hated the snow. On the contrary, he enjoyed the cold weather—that is, under the right circumstances. Those circumstances didn’t include being _stranded_ in the middle of _nowhere_ on his way to a safehouse in a car with bad heating. And by bad, he meant _none_. The two of them were gonna freeze to death if he didn’t get them out of this.

“I’m gonna get out an’ see if I can dig the wheels out some.”

Hanzo hummed his acknowledgment and slid Jesse another weary gaze. He sat up a bit and reached for his seatbelt. “Would you like my assistance?”

“Nah, no point in both o’ us freezin’ our bits off,” said McCree reluctantly. In reality, he would’ve loved to have Hanzo’s company, but Hanzo hadn’t dressed for the weather. McCree didn’t reckon Hanzo _knew_ how to dress for the weather. He’d been swimming in one of McCree’s sweatshirts since the start of the mission, shucking it only when he needed to shoot his bow, which hadn’t been very often.

This whole mission had been a damn bust. Their target (some high-end Talon member) hadn’t shown up, and McCree had almost been recognized. The two of them had been forced to retreat early and send word about their failure back to Winston. He hadn’t seemed mad, but it was hard to tell with him sometimes.

Now, _Hanzo_ was upset. McCree didn’t have to know the man intimately to recognize the set in his jaw and the narrow of his eyes. Hanzo couldn’t stand failure, and he was probably pissed off that said failure had been, in part, McCree’s fault.

No. There was no point in both of them freezing their asses off. McCree had cost them the mission, so he would take the bullet this time.

“Do not lose any _bits_ that I might miss,” Hanzo requested, not keen on arguing apparently as Jesse shuffled out into the cold. He must not have been _that_ mad at McCree, but Jesse wasn’t about to get his hopes up.

“I’ll take your request into consideration, darlin’.” With a tip of his hat, Jesse shut the door and shivered. Looking out around them, all he could see for miles was white, white, and _more_ white. White even fell from the sky in thick, heavy flakes that stuck to his beard and eyelashes.

Fucking snow. He rubbed his hands together as he began to wade his way through the snow, already feeling the wet bullshit soak his pants through from the calf down.

If the two of them made it out of this, McCree was damn well making sure he checked the weather before agreeing to any missions in the future. This snow was _hell_.

And it was only going to get worse, he realized as he was forced to kneel down to get a good look at the white fluff compacted tightly around the wheels. _Shit_. He reached his metal hand forward to try and dig some of it out, but all he felt was biting cold where his prosthetic connected to warm flesh. Hissing, he pulled back and tugged his serape closer.

Even if they got the car moving again, was it safe to drive in this shit? Jesse didn’t want to think about it, so he stood back up, brushed as much snow off his pants as he could, and trudged back to the driver’s side door.

The moment he got back in, Hanzo reached over to peel his glove off and take his hand. When he pulled it up to his lips to leave breathy kisses, McCree sighed in relief. Hanzo’s breath was _so warm_ , it made Jesse shudder.

“Doesn’t look like we’ll be able to move the car anytime soon,” McCree mumbled, his voice quiet to keep from disturbing the quiet atmosphere. “We’re pretty stuck, darlin’.”

Hanzo made a small noise of affirmation and did not yet let go of McCree’s hand. He kissed each of McCree’s knuckles and then turned it over to kiss his palm. McCree sighed again, feeling some of the stress leave his shoulders. Hanzo must not have been _too_ pissed at him. Either that, or this was one weird revenge tactic.

“We’re probably gonna have to call Winston for help.”

“Hm. We will call for help later.”

McCree nodded, wondering just what was on Hanzo’s mind. He was having trouble thinking with the way Hanzo kept pressing those sweet, long kisses to his knuckles and looking up at him so intensely.

“Han, I’m sorry about this whole mess. If I hadn’t blown our cover like that—”

“That is a thing of the past.”

“The past bein’ _an hour ago_ —”

“Why do you wish to dwell on this?”

“I ruined the mission!”

“Our target did not show; that is not your fault,” Hanzo reasoned.

“I got us stuck in the snow!”

“You could not have predicted the weather. Do not try to take the blame for things that you had no control over,” Hanzo chided, sounding mildly annoyed.

McCree huffed, trying to keep his frustrations in check. “I don’t get it. Why aren’t you pissed about this?”

Hanzo did not answer. He gave McCree’s hand a look of deep concentration and then nodded, having reached some sort of decision. He reached up to remove McCree’s hat, dropping it into the seat behind them. McCree was about to comment on the carelessness when Hanzo began carding a warm hand through Jesse’s har, digging rough fingers against his scalp to bring his mouth down to greet Hanzo’s.

McCree accepted the kiss with no resistance; he’d learned that when his man wanted to make out, he was better off letting hit happen than worrying about the whys of the situation. He just gave in to Hanzo, let him have his way with him, and enjoyed the messy, delicious kiss.

“You are cold,” Hanzo murmured, biting at McCree’s lower lip. “We should warm you up.”

“Aw, _hell_ , darlin’,” McCree groaned, loving where Hanzo’s hand was straying. Now that he was thinking about it, the two of them hadn’t had much alone time lately. They were either on mission or just damn tired from missions, so any time they had to themselves had gone to cuddling in bed.

If Hanzo wanted to wait a little bit to get ahold of Winston, McCree wasn’t about to complain.

He did have to ask, his lips wet and swollen and aching for more, “ **Can that sort of thing be done in a car**?”

Hanzo’s wolfish grin rubbed him _all_ the right ways. “I suppose we will have to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This could end up with a second part. I'm just too tired and not confident enough to write smut right now. ^^;


	8. McHanzo (Part One): If I told you everything, would you still look at me the same?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: 33 + Mchanzo
> 
> 33\. “If I told you everything, would you still look at me the same?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of background, I wrote this taking place about two years before the recall!

“ **If I told you everything, would you still look at me the same**?”

“What’re you talkin’ about, darlin’?” McCree’s voice was a deep rumble in his ear, and Hanzo shivered. McCree’s arms were strong and warm around him, cradling him close and secure. That security felt misleading to Hanzo, tremendously unstable and more than a little dangerous.

 _Dangerous_ because a man like Hanzo shouldn’t have attachments. _Dangerous_ because _attached_ was definitely the word that Hanzo would use when speaking of Jesse McCree. _Dangerous_ because McCree didn’t even know his name.

Because a name meant information. A name meant _history_ , ammunition. _Reason_ for McCree to turn a dark eye to Hanzo and leave him in the dust.

Hanzo and McCree met several months ago, and Hanzo’s life couldn’t be more different. No more nights of going to bed in strange places, drunk out of his mind and wishing for death. No more dreams of blood dripping from his blade, of how easily it had been to cut the life from his brother.

McCree had changed all of that, changed Hanzo for the _better_ , but Hanzo was no fool. Hanzo knew his past would make him unbearable to McCree, turn that seemingly endless affection into loathing in a heartbeat.

And Hanzo _deserved_ this. For what Hanzo had done, he deserved to lose McCree and what little comfort he provided. McCree would leave, and Hanzo would have nothing but the ghosts of his mistakes and the agony of his nightmares for company.

Just the thought made Hanzo clutch at McCree’s arms, forcing McCree to hold him tighter. McCree made a small noise and turned Hanzo over, leaning over him to look at Hanzo’s face. His metal hand came up to graze Hanzo’s cheek with more tenderness than Hanzo deserved, and Hanzo had to turn away from the intense warmth in McCree’s eyes. He almost couldn’t take it, this—this _weakness_ —and he would have fled if not for how strongly McCree held him.

“Darlin’, talk to me. Tell me what’s botherin’ ya, and I’ll do my best to make it go away,” Jesse urged, bending his head to press warm kisses to the curve of Hanzo’s ear. Hanzo took a deep breath.

“You are a good man, Jesse McCree.”

“Not as good as ya might think,” McCree said, and it wasn’t the first time Hanzo had heard such a cryptic tone lace his lover’s voice. “I’ve seen my fair share of blood an’ death, lemme tell ya. I ain’t that good.”

“But you are better than me,” Hanzo decided, no arguments allowed. He nodded, as if to further solidify this, but McCree never was one for listening. He bit the shell of Hanzo’s ear in retaliation, and Hanzo grunted, trying to squirm away and failing.

“Depends on who you’re askin’, I think.” McCree grinned down at him affectionately, and Hanzo narrowed his eyes.

“You say that now,” Hanzo insisted with a shake of his head. “But if I were to tell you even a fraction of what I have done… you would turn your back on me.” He shivered with the truth of his words and tried to escape McCree with renewed vigor. Now that he had said it aloud, he couldn’t bear McCree’s doting touch. It was overwhelming, stifling, _fleeting_.

“Have a little faith in me, would ya? I ain’t goin’ nowhere. There’s nothin’ you could tell me that would change the way I look at ya.” McCree promised, his drawl deep and raw, as affected by this assumption as Hanzo was. Even if he didn’t understand it, McCree was _hurting_ with Hanzo’s words, and Hanzo wanted nothing more than to hide Jesse away from all of Hanzo’s negative thoughts.

And while he didn’t believe the gunslinger to be lying, certainly McCree couldn’t understand the severity of what Hanzo was trying to impart. It would be better to end this now, sever this tie before Hanzo had fallen too far to ever come back. Before even the thought of life without Jesse McCree became unbearable.

“I lost faith a long time ago,” Hanzo murmured, trying to hurt McCree but unable to bring himself to do so. “The only faith I have is in my bow, my dragons.”

McCree’s hand trailed down Hanzo’s left arm at the mention of the dragons. He did not know about Hanzo’s ability to summon the dragons and simply believed the tattoo to have some significant meaning. Hanzo could never tell him; to tell him would be a hint into Hanzo’s identity that he could not afford.

If McCree knew Hanzo’s name, then he would know what Hanzo had done. This was unacceptable; even if Hanzo broke their ties, he wanted McCree to remember him for the moments they had and not what Hanzo had done in the past.

Jesse wrapped himself around Hanzo, seeming to hold on tighter the more Hanzo tried to get him to let go. He rested his chin on Hanzo’s shoulder, his breath fanning against Hanzo’s throat as he relaxed against him. “You remember the day we met?”

Hanzo scoffed. “I almost died; how could I forget?”

“You remember how you called my serape a _dirty_ _towel_?”

“I was drunk!” Hanzo tried to defend, huffing when he felt McCree press a laughing kiss to his throat. “And you stared at me as if I was the uncivilized one. I thought you were ridiculous in your cowboy hat and towel.”

“Serape,” McCree corrected, still chuckling. “And not as ridiculous as the drunk guy pickin’ fights and tryin’ to get himself killed.”

Hanzo hummed, not keen on reliving this particular aspect of their meeting. “Is there a point to this, or do you merely wish to ridicule me?”

“Nah, there’s a point. I’m gettin’ there.” McCree pressed another kiss against his skin, much firmer this time. “My point is, darlin’, I already saw ya at your lowest. Hell, ya threw up on me, and I still wanted to see ya again.”

“Masochist,” Hanzo murmured, drawing his hand up to comb through McCree’s hair.

“Ya might be right. Don’t change a thing, though. I don’t care what ya mighta done in your past. It don’t matter to me one bit.”

Hanzo swallowed, his throat tight. McCree’s confession was _suffocating_ him, and it took several stuttering breaths for him to convince his heart to work properly again. “But you—you do not even know my _name_ ,” he gasped, desperate to cling to what he believed would happen. McCree would _never_ look at him the same way once he told about the Shimada clan, about _Genji_. That would ruin this perfectly flawed Hanzo that McCree had built up in his head, and Hanzo didn’t want to be around for when that moment happened.

“Eh, that’s somethin’ I can wait for ya to tell me. When you’re ready.” McCree’s voice was a low rumble that resonated deep within Hanzo, shaking him to his core. “I have a feelin’ it’ll be worth it when ya do.”

Hanzo could not let this go on. Not when he knew the truth. For all of Jesse’s promises, he didn’t know the kind of monster Hanzo could be. That he had destroyed his brother’s life, his _own_ life, and would surely do the same to McCree’s.

So Hanzo let Jesse kiss him, cradle him close, rock into him with more affection and care than Hanzo believed he should have. He took it all, drank in every ounce of passion Jesse McCree was willing to give him as if it might be the last time. Because it was.

Hanzo left Jesse with a cold bed that night. A cold bed and no explanation, no way of finding him because if there was anything Hanzo was good at, it was disappearing without a trace. He did not leave empty-handed, though. Stashed away in his pocket was the comforting weight of McCree’s bandana, the one he’d dipped in water and dabbed Hanzo’s drunken, feverish face with the night they met.

He took something of McCree’s and left nothing in return. No trace of him. Not even his _name_. Left before McCree’s gaze could change from caring and kind to something darker and filled with animosity.

Hanzo never intended to see the cowboy again, but as fate would have it, he would find himself standing in front of Jesse McCree again two years later. In the hangar at Watchpoint: Gibraltar with Genji standing between them, going on about how he and Hanzo were attempting to reconcile, Hanzo couldn’t believe his luck. Hanzo stared at the space between them, focused on McCree’s ridiculous belt buckle instead.

McCree _knew_. He knew Genji well, knew what had happened to him, what _Hanzo had done_. Hanzo took a deep breath, afraid to look up and see that change in expression. He liked the memory of Jesse that he had stowed away carefully in his heart—the memory of soft looks and even softer touches.

“Well, howdy.” A hand appeared in Hanzo’s line of sight, and Hanzo looked up in surprise. McCree’s mouth curled up in a grin, his brown eyes warm and alight with excitement.

Still looking at Hanzo the same way he always had, the way Hanzo feared he would never see again.

“Nice to meet ya, _Hanzo_. I reckon you and I are gonna get along fine.”


	9. Reaper76 (Part Two): You're adorable when you're angry/Do your worst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> squishyscribbler asked: 2. “You’re adorable when you’re angry. No wonder nobody takes you serious.” REAPER76 :'DDDDDDD
> 
> squishyscribbler also asked: If you can put them together in 1 fic, cool. If not, cool…. 40. “Do your worst.” Reaper76 B)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation from chapter 6's Reaper76 fic!

_Jack wasn’t supposed to get angry._

_He was the face of Overwatch, the poster boy that thousands looked up to as a hero. He was the reason millions of people were safe, why thousands still applied to Overwatch every day. He was supposed to smile charismatically and be the example of good behavior._

_What a fucking joke._

_Jack’s fist connected with the punching bag, the scream of the chain loud in the otherwise quiet room. The new cadets had long-ago left, and Jack was grateful for the blessed silence. He punched again, going for a combo that left him a little winded but feeling better._

_His fists were beginning to grow sore, his strikes too hard for even his enhanced body, so he slowed until he rested against the punching bag. He breathed heavily, consistently, and it was all he heard for a long moment._

_The quiet was enough to return the weight to his bones, to make his exhaustion so real, he wanted nothing more than to collapse under the weight of it. But he was still Strike Commander Morrison, still the poster boy of Overwatch, and such vulnerability, even in the comfort of the base, was not a luxury afforded to him._

_That thought alone was enough to return the fire to his blood, and then Jack was hitting the bag again with brutal, ill-conceived attacks that only caused pain to shoot through his arms. He kept at it, burning with rage, until he collapsed against the bag yet again, now sore and pissed off._

_“ **You’re adorable when you’re angry. No wonder nobody takes you serious**.”_

_Jack turned to shoot a venomous glare at the intruder. “Fuck you, Reyes.”_

_“Maybe later, if you’re good.” Gabriel Reyes stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, appraising Jack with an unreadable expression. Jack wasn’t in the mood for this, so he turned around and raised his fists again, ready for round three._

_“What do you want, Reyes?”_

_“So you have a bad day, and suddenly I’m Reyes now?” Gabe tried to hide the hurt behind the noise. Jack stifled the guilt bubbling in his gut with more irritation._

_“What do you want, Gabe?” Jack repeated frostily._

_Gabriel didn’t say anything for a long moment. Jack felt the man’s eyes bearing into his back intensely, and he tried to suppress a shudder. It didn’t matter how angry he was; Gabriel Reyes was always his weakness, always the thing that wore him down on his worst days. Suddenly, he regretted being such an asshole, wanting nothing more than to go over to Gabe and ask him to make it all go away._

_Everything. The anger. The lack of privacy or personal life or personality, half the time. Overwatch. Jack loved the work they did, believed in it, but sometimes, he wished it would all just disappear. Then he wouldn’t have to be the golden boy anymore. No more Strike Commander Morrison. Just Jack._

_And maybe Gabriel, if Jack didn’t manage to push him away before then._

_“I heard you scared a bunch of new recruits. Isn’t that supposed to be my job?” Gabe’s voice was teasing enough, but Jack could hear the hint of concern in his tone. Jack stiffened at the sound of it._

_“They’re idiots,” Jack replied, striking out at the bag once in frustration. “They think Overwatch is some bright, shining thing. Some glorious beacon of hope where nothing bad happens and nobody dies.”_

_“Isn’t it?” Gabe asked sardonically._

_“No.” Jack shook his head, his fists falling limply to his sides. His arms trembled tiredly, and he wanted nothing more than to sag against Reyes. “They think I’m a hero. That there isn’t a war going on, that this isn’t dangerous work. They’re idiots to join Overwatch on whim alone.”_

_“And that’s what you told them?”_

_Jack grimaced. “Essentially. I might not have been so nice about it earlier.”_

_“Jackie,” said Gabe, trying to hide a laugh behind a loud sigh. He approached now, footsteps loud enough to give Jack the opportunity to reject him. When Jack didn’t make any moves to dismiss him, Reaper reached his arms around him, drawing him close, and Jack sighed with relief. Gabe chuckled. “Keep this up, and you’ll get a reputation, like me. You don’t want people accusing you of acting like the scary Blackwatch commander, do you?”_

_“People don’t think you’re scary. You think you’re scary,” Jack said, leaning back into him. Gabriel was built solidly, all thick, broad muscle that Jack could relax against. Gabe’s hands were around his waist, tighter now in slight retaliation for the cheek, but he said nothing about the comment._

_“And what do you think?” Gabe asked, voice rough and husky in his ear. He brought his hands up, kneading at Jack’s shoulders to remove the tension from the day’s stress. The touch was rough, grounding, and Jack could hardly hold in a groan of satisfaction. Gabe hummed a little, smug with himself, but Jack wasn’t about to feel embarrassed._

_Not when it was only the two of them. He wasn’t Strike Commander Morrison. He wasn’t the golden boy. The face of Overwatch. He was allowed to get angry. He was allowed to be vulnerable._

_“I think you’re exactly what I need.”_

 

* * *

 

 

Soldier:76 ducked behind a wall to reload, his heart pounding a rough and rocky tempo. He knew his enemy was nearby, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to end him. This was a tango they had been doing for a long time, one that he was familiar with. The push, the pull, the passion, the _hatred_ —76 knew how to do this dance.

The only thing that worried him was if these well-practiced steps would be the end of him or not.

This wasn’t the first time they’d found each other in the old, deserted halls of the old Overwatch base, both far too reminiscent for their own good. 76 went back for the memories, for what he had once had inside these empty walls.

He didn’t miss being Overwatch’s poster boy. The fans and fellow agents watching his every move. Those days were gone, and he couldn’t be happier.

No, 76 missed the work. Helping people. Making a difference. He missed the people he’d grown close to, those he considered good companions. Friends.

Even more than all that, he missed—

“You’re losing your touch, Jackie,” the Reaper’s cold voice hissed in his ear. Jack turned in time to ram him in the gut with his pulse rifle, followed with a swift punch to the face. If there _was_ even a face behind the mask anymore. 76 didn’t know for certain; his only opportunity had been in Dorado a few months ago, and he hadn’t exactly been thinking about opening his eyes then.

The memory of Reaper’s cool mouth on his coupled with their current location left an odd ache in 76’s chest that he longed to stamp out. He was a _soldier_. He wasn’t supposed to show such weakness, such _vulnerability_ , even in the presence of someone he once trusted.

“I’ve still got it,” said 76, gun pointed at Reaper’s head. One quick, clean shot would do it. No doubt about that.

76 hesitated, unable to take the shot. His heart longed for the man he once knew, and that alone made his aim waver. Gabriel had _meant something_ to him, had been his _everything_.

But this wasn’t Gabriel anymore, was it? Suddenly, seeing behind that mask was the only important thing to Jack. He narrowed his eyes, glaring through his visor, and pointed the gun with renewed determination.

Reaper must have sensed this because he ordered, not without an air of arrogance, “ **Do your worst**.”

76 would do one more. “Take off your mask.”

“What?” Reaper began to recoil, having not expected this, and 76 pressed forward more. Reaper was close to the wall now, a reverse of their positions in Dorado, and 76 couldn’t help but rise up at the confidence fueling him.

No longer was he the tired old man he’d been that night. He was rested, furious, and eager for the fight Reaper always encouraged.

The hallway was dark, but 76 could see well with his visor, even the minute details. He could see Reaper’s sharp inhale of breath, the sudden stiffness to his shoulders. 76 had caught him off guard, remarkably, and he was having trouble recovering. 76 tried not to think about where they were on the old base, how close they were to the quarters they had once shared.

The realization only spurned 76 on more, and he repeated, almost _growled_ , “You heard me. Take. Off. _The mask_.”

Reaper laughed, unhinged, and 76 shivered involuntarily at the sound. 76 expected him to argue, to put up a fight. Something. He wasn’t expecting Reaper to reach one clawed hand up, not even the slightest hesitation in his movements. 76 felt his breath catch as Reaper grabbed the mask, yanked it off, and tossed it to the side.

But then he was gone, nothing but a cloud of smoke still laughing smugly at him. 76 turned, ready to shoot, but Reaper was faster. He knocked the gun from 76’s grasp, spun him around, and pinned him to the wall. One of Reaper’s twin shotguns was pressed against the side of his head, Reaper’s other hand caging him against the wall.

Not the first time 76 had been in this exact position, and if he survived, he doubted it would be the last.

“How long are we going to do this, Jack?” Reaper asked, his voice guttural and foreign, nothing like Gabriel’s had been. There were so many contrasts that screamed to 76 that this wasn’t the same man he had once loved, but his heart still couldn’t be convinced.

“Until one or both of us is dead,” 76 replied curtly, unfazed by this turn of events. Reaper wouldn’t kill him. Not now. Not _here_.

“I could see to that right now,” Reaper taunted, his breath cold against 76’s ear. “Leave Overwatch’s former lapdog to rot in these familiar halls, just down the hall from where we used to sleep. You ever dream of those nights, Jack? Dream of me being inside you, taking you time and time again, and you just _begging for it_?”

“Every night,” said 76 smoothly, and Reaper must not have expected such an easy admission because he faltered just enough for 76 to retaliate. He stomped on Reaper’s foot then threw his elbow back, connected with his unprotected face. Reaper staggered back, hissing in fury, but he didn’t get the opportunity to make a move before 76 was sending him to the floor.

Reaper knelt before him, face turned away to be hid behind the hood of his cloak. 76 watched him, waited for a move that never came. He followed Reaper’s line of sight and realized that he was staring at his fallen mask, as if planning the quickest route to reach it before 76 saw his face.

“Why won’t you show me your face?” 76’s voice was quiet, almost nonexistent in the loud silence already permeating the hallway. He wasn’t really expecting a reply—or, a sarcastic, biting one, at the very least. What he didn’t expect was Reaper’s cold laugh and even colder reply.

“I told you before; I look like shit. Nothing like the man you remember, pretty boy.”

“If you’re here to kill me, what does it matter?”

Reaper didn’t say anything, just continued to stare at his mask, as if trying to intimidate it to come within reach.

“You _are_ here to kill me, aren’t you?” 76 questioned curiously. He took a step closer, ignoring the way Reaper flinched at the advance, and added, “You said it that night in Dorado. You said to be _ready_. You wouldn’t spare me again.”

“I remember.”

“So what is this?” 76 gestured aimlessly, trying to indicate to whatever _this_ was.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” Reaper spat, his voice lacking some of its usual venom.

All at once, 76 realized what had happened. That he wasn’t the only one who liked to visit their old haunts, reminisce about the days long gone. That while 76 may have remembered how to breathe when they last met in Dorado, Reaper might have forgotten.

Immediately, all the fight left him. The weight returned to his bones, and he slumped against the wall beside his old comrade. Reaper didn’t turn to look at him now that they were at eye level, and 76 didn’t care. He reached up to remove his visor and let it fall to the ground between them, an open invitation that he wondered if Reaper would exploit.

He honestly hoped he would.

“So that’s how it is,” said 76 thoughtfully. “Guess we’re both looking for the same thing.”

“And what’s that?” Reaper growled scornfully.

“What we once had.”

Reaper’s arm came out suddenly, shotgun aimed for 76’s head. He still wasn’t looking at him, but there was no mistaking that aim. Reaper knew exactly where he was, and 76 wondered if this had all be a trap to get him to lower his guard. Truthfully, he didn’t care.

“Not there,” said 76, reaching up to grab Reaper’s arm and redirect the shot. He positioned the gun over his heart and waited. If Reaper was going to kill him (as Reaper kept insisting he was), then he needed to shoot him where it would count.

After all, his heart still belonged to Gabriel Reyes, so Reaper might as well be the one to put an end to it.

Angrily, Reaper tossed the gun aside, letting it skitter across the hallway the same way he would if he’d run out of ammo. He breathed low, frustrated growls, trembling with a fury 76 was surprised he could contain, and still refused to look at the soldier.

“So what now?” Reaper asked moodily.

“You tell me. We keep fighting. We keep chasing each other. Trying to kill each other.”

Reaper cackled, though it lacked its usual mirth. “I like that idea.”

“Do you?” 76 looked over at him, an eyebrow raised.

“Maybe one of these times, I’ll actually be able to go through with it,” Reaper continued quietly.

“With what?” 76 already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it. _Needed_ to hear it.

Reaper turned a little, and 76 was sure he saw a flash of red. “Killing you.”

“Maybe you will,” 76 agreed, nodding in solemn agreement. “Maybe one of these times, I’ll go through with killing _you_.”

“No, Jack. You’d never be able to kill me. You don’t have it in you,” said Reaper, the smirk evident in his ragged voice.

“And you do?” 76 scoffed.

“… You’re still alive, aren’t you?” Reaper sounded, in that moment, more human than Jack had heard in years. Hell, he almost sounded like Gabriel Reyes, and the urge to see his face returned full force.

“Gabe… Gabe, let me see you.”

“No,” Reaper snapped nastily.

“Gabriel.” 76 reached forward, wondering what Reaper would do if he were touched. Would Reaper lash out like a wild animal, strike at him, bare angry fangs and bite at him. Or would he allow the touch, welcome it, _crave it_ the same way 76 did. 76 wanted to know, _needed to know_ , how Reaper would react, so he kept up the advance, his gloved hand about to encounter sleek, black cloak.

Instead of allowing the touch, Reaper’s claw reached up to grab Jack’s, icy cold and gripping his fingers tight enough to inflict minor pain. 76 welcomed it with nothing but a small grunt, almost relishing in the pain.

The pain made it real. Made _this_ real.

“You’ll never look at me the same,” said Reaper. “You see my face, then I’ll really be a monster.”

76 didn’t care; he wasn’t going to stop asking. He would follow the Reaper to the ends of the earth, fight with him as long as it took, just to see his face again. Whether it was the face of a man or a monster mattered little, as long as it was _Gabriel_.

Wrapping his hand just as tight around Gabriel’s, he pulled, expecting some sort of resistance. Gabriel went willingly, hesitating only once at the last moment before he turned his face to look at 76. The soldier took in a deep breath, scanning the face of his enemy, taking in what was familiar and what was not. Reaper just stared at him, waiting for 76’s inevitable disgust.

“So what’s the verdict, Jack? Am I a monster?” he leered, harsh tone dripping with loathing. For himself or 76, the soldier wasn’t sure. “Do I scare you?”

“You’ve never been scary, Gabe,” said 76 with a smirk. “Only _you_ think you’re scary.”

“So what _do_ you think?” Reaper grabbed 76 by the collar and dragged him closer. Even his breath was cold, and 76 shivered as it fanned out across his cheeks.

76 smirked, heart pounding sharply, remembering _yet again_ how easy it was to breathe around Gabriel. He grabbed the Reaper’s cloak, intending to pull him in for a bruising, biting kiss.

“I think you’re exactly what I need.”

And Reaper went willingly.


	10. Reaper76 (Part Three): I'd watch your tone around me right about now/You're a monster (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> squishyscribbler asked: "I NEED MORE REAPER76, NOW PLEASE 16. “I’d watch your tone around me right about now.” 32. “You’re a monster.” THANK YOU"
> 
>  
> 
> Smut warning! A third part to the last two R76 prompts

_Jack was fucked._

_He knew that the moment that Gabriel strode into the practice range, eyes intense and shining with frustration; he zeroed in on Jack, his whole posture coiled as if to strike. Jack’s eyes shifted to him, taking in the rigidity in his shoulders, the tight press of his lips, and knew that he needed to clear the room. Immediately, before Gabe decided to spar with one of them instead of him._

_Which wasn’t about to happen anyways, Jack realized as he ordered a sharp dismissal of his cadets. Gabriel hadn’t taken his eyes off Jack, those hard, burning eyes that sent a signal straight to his groin. Gabriel was here for him, and nobody else would do._

_Jack took a deep breath, his arms crossed as he waited for his men to file out, confusion written on their faces as they glanced between the two commanders. They must’ve looked like a real sight, Jack figured. Gabriel Reyes wearing his most fearsome, dangerous glare and Jack Morrison just standing there, meeting that gaze without even batting an eyelash._

_Yeah, Jack recognized that look. That was Gabe’s Somebody’s-Gonna-Get-Fucked look. That look made cadets cower in fear, but not Jack. Jack had never been afraid of Gabriel. Not the day they met, when Jack was still green behind the ears and Gabriel was already a motherfucking powerhouse. Not the day they argued the worst, when Gabriel kept advancing and Jack just stood his ground—foolishly, he’d thought—until Gabriel had him against the wall, kissing him for the first time._

_Not now, the range empty save for the two of them. Gabriel hands clenched and unclenched at his sides; Jack could hear the flex of the leather straining against the tightness of his fists. Slowly, Jack shrugged out of his jacket, watching Gabriel watching him._

_Gabe hadn’t said anything yet, and that in itself was odd. To most others, Gabriel liked to be the strong, silent one, and if he opened his mouth, you knew you were gonna get it. But not to Jack. To Jack, he was always open, willing to let down the walls he’d erected to keep himself safe in this world of violence and war._

_If Gabriel wasn’t talking to him, then a simple spar wouldn’t be enough to fix this. Jack shrugged out of his overshirt, too, now down to his pants and a t-shirt. Gabriel watched him quietly before he began to shuck his own clothes, stripping all the way down to his bare chest. Jack watched, transfixed, as Gabriel tossed his shirt off to the side._

_Gabe didn’t smirk at the attention. He didn’t preen. His expression remained stoic, calculated, focused. Trained on Jack the way they would follow an enemy. A shiver went up Jack’s spine._

_He felt hunted. And more than anything, he trusted his predator._

_“Are we going to fight, or do you just want to stand here and stare at each other until one of us gets bored?” Jack asked, smiling cheekily._

_Gabriel’s jaw tightened at the challenge. He turned away for a moment, wet his lips, and then tilted his head back to Jack. His expression was calm in the way that a lion’s would be in the face of an easy prey._

_“ **I’d watch your tone around me right about now** ,” warned Gabriel, his voice low and rumbling with promise. “Jackie.” _

_Jack swallowed, his heart racing a wild tempo in his head. He lowered his body into a loose crouch, his fists raised more in defense than aggression. “Better not keep me waiting then, Gabe.”_

_Gabriel scoffed one short, quick laugh, and then he was moving. Lightning quick, he struck out at Jack, aiming for his face. Probably his nose. Jack deflected easily, and then their dance began._

_Jack knew how to dance well with Gabriel. The push, the pull, the twists and turns that they both flowed through so easily. In all his years, he’d never found somebody that he meshed with so flawlessly. Every punch Gabriel threw, Jack could easily anticipate. And every time Jack tried to counter, Gabriel dodged without thinking about it._

_They sparred with one mind, one heartbeat. They danced._

_But, as with all dances, the unpredictable could happen. Jack learned this the hard way, face up on the training mat with Gabriel standing over him. Jack was breathing hard, ragged gasps, the wind knocked right out of him from the fall. Gabriel was panting too, his big eyes still intense and narrow._

_Jack held out an expectant hand. Gabriel regarded that hand and then regarded Jack, his face giving away nothing. He took Jack’s hand, hauled him up, and then Jack’s back was against the wall. Gabe grabbed the collar of his shirt, fist raised, and Jack lifted his chin in a small act of defiance._

_Gabriel hesitated. Too a big, deep breath._

_“Going to hit me, Commander?” Jack asked, quiet but nonetheless cheeky._

_“You want me to, Strike Commander?” Gabriel grumbled, definitely angry about something. Cautiously, Jack raised his hands to touch Gabriel’s; when he did, he felt the barest of tremble, and his heart lurched. “I could think of a few things I’d rather do. What’s wrong?”_

_The fire was back instantly. Gabriel pressed him hard against the wall, closer now. Close enough for Jack to feel the heat rising from Gabe’s bare chest. “Why does something have to be wrong? Can’t I just want to punch you in the face every now and then?”_

_“Only when I deserve it.”_

_Gabe scoffed. “How do you know you don’t deserve it now?”_

_“Gabriel.” Jack reached toward his face, caressed the soft curve of his cheekbone. He’d just shaved recently, his goatee neat and trimmed against Jack’s fingertips when he dragged them across Gabe’s jaw. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”_

_“Shut up, Jack. Just shut up.” And then Gabriel was pressing into him, his mouth descending for a desperate kiss. Jack groaned, his hand going around to the back of Gabriel’s neck to hold him near. Gabriel was rougher than usual, as if he needed to take by force what Jack always willingly gave._

_This sudden change scared Jack a little, so he gave himself over to Gabe, let him have his way with his mouth until Gabe let go of Jack’s shirt at last and began to slide along Jack’s sides. Jack sighed against him, melting into the feeling of being surrounded by Gabriel._

_Where his mouth was brutal, his touch was tender, almost reverent. Jack was used to people worshipping him. He got that every day. Looking at him like he fucking walked on water, and he hated every second of it. But Gabriel—Gabriel worshipped him out of genuine love. He knew Jack didn’t walk on water, and he adored him anyway. Sometimes, Jack didn’t know how to handle that level of devotion._

_Gabriel tore his mouth away so he could lift Jack’s shirt over his head and toss it off to the side. His hands mapped up Jack’s abs with soft, firm presses until his reached Jack’s pecs. “I fucking love your body,” he praised, thumbs rubbing over Jack’s nipples just to make him twitch and squirm._

_“You only with me for my body?” Jack teased, and Gabe rewarded him with a bite to the ear. Jack grunted and yanked Gabriel against him, desperate for skin on skin contact. Gabe’s chest was slick with sweat and stuck to Jack’s skin, and nothing had ever felt so glorious._

_“Well, I’m certainly not with you for your mouth,” Gabe mumbled in his ear, the hint of a smile in his voice at last._

_“You won’t be saying that in a minute,” Jack promised, his hands sliding down toward Gabriel’s waistband._

_But Gabriel grabbed Jack’s wrist and pinned it to the wall as well, a warning in his eyes. “Right now, I’m not saying that at all, Jackie.”_

_“Gabriel—”_

_“I won, so you have to just stand there now.”_

_“You won?” Jack almost laughed. “That spar was a competition to you?”_

_“Just—do this for me. Okay?” Something about the way Reyes was looking at him gave Jack pause. Gabriel never asked for anything when it came to their relationship. They were equal in this—they both gave and took the same. They had no double standards. No irrational demands. No power play._

_But Gabriel was asking for power. For trust. And seeing the intent, almost pleading expression on Gabriel’s face, Jack realized that he needed this. He needed to feel in control. And Jack…._

_Well. Maybe it wasn’t so bad to let go every now and then._

_So Jack let down his defenses. He let Gabriel touch him, kiss him, leave biting kiss marks all over his throat and shoulder. He didn’t think about it; he gave himself over to Gabriel, came undone for him, gasping as he spilled over his fingers and only complaining a little when Gabe wiped his hand off on Jack’s pants._

_The two of them stood there for a long moment, Gabe listening to Jack’s breath begin to slow. The stress was gone from him now, and he watched Jack with an open, loving expression that made Jack’s heart race all over again. Sometimes, it was like they were teenagers, their relationship a new and bright thing that mattered more than anything else. More than Overwatch, more than the war and the titles and the politics—in those moments, they were just Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes._

_And they were in love._

_“You okay?” Gabe asked him, sounding completely fucked out even if Jack had been the only one receiving. His expressed was sated and soft, much more himself now. Jack kissed him, slow, sweet, and Gabe melted against him, purring like a satisfied cat._

_“Are you?” Jack asked against his mouth, letting the worry leak into his voice. He felt Gabe stiffen, and he almost regretted calling attention to Gabe’s earlier behavior._

_He sighed then laughed once, the sound dripping with frustration. “Can’t sneak anything by you, can I?”_

_“Not without a little more effort.”_

_Gabe laughed for real this time. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Coming in here and pinning you against the wall probably wasn’t the best way to keep something from you.”_

_“I think I actually prefer this method,” said Jack, shrugging nonchalantly._

_“Cheeky bastard. Be nicer to the guy who just got you off.” Gabe lifted Jack’s hand, kissing his knuckles almost reverently. He looked like he was about to say something, so Jack stayed quiet, basking in Gabriel’s devotion until he was ready to speak._

_“Do you ever think we should stop seeing each other?”_

_Jack laughed at the absurdity until he felt Gabriel stiffen and realized that he was being serious. “No, why would I—why, do you?” A slight panic began to rise within him that he forced back down. Gabriel didn’t—he wouldn’t—but if he did then—well, there wasn’t much Jack could do about it, was there? Gabriel was stubborn, almost as much as Jack himself, and if he got something into his head, it was like pulling teeth to change his mind._

_So if Gabriel wanted to break up, then… then Jack would have to respect that. He’d been so sure about them, though! They’d been together for years. Before the SEP, before the crisis, before Strike Commander and Blackwatch—so much shit had tried to get between them, and they always managed to come back together in the end. Always swore they wanted to._

_But what had it been? What had been the final straw that made Gabriel decide that he wanted out? Had Jack been working too much? Ignoring him? Jack tended to be a workaholic, so it wouldn’t surprise him if he’d been neglecting their relationship._

_But he could fix that! He was willing to fix that! Now if only he could convince Gabriel—_

_The feeling of warm lips pressing to his brought him back to the real world. Practice range. Wall. Gabriel. Gabriel, solid and sweaty against him, definitely not kissing him in a way that suggested he wanted to break up._

_“Jackie,” Gabe warned, a smile to his voice, “I can practically see you going through the stages of grief. Do you really think I would come in here and give you the best orgasm of your life if I wanted to break up?”_

_Jack shrugged a little, feeling a bit foolish but not willing to admit it. “I wouldn’t say the best—”_

_“Now hold on—”_

_“I mean, your hand’s great and all, but there’s just something really great about your cock—”_

_“Jack.” Gabriel laughed, kissing him again if for no other reason than to shut him up._

_“Seriously, why would you think that I would ever want to break up?” Jack pulled away to look at Gabriel, and he was stunned to see fear in his eyes. He reached his hands up to cradle Gabe’s cheeks, smiling supportively when Gabe sighed and leaned into his touch. “We’ve worked so hard for what we have. There’s nothing that would ever make me want to let that go.”_

_“Even if I was holding you back?”_

_“I’m literally that Strike Commander. Overwatch’s poster boy, remember? I don’t think there’s really a step up from that,” Jack pointed out._

_Gabe nodded a little. “Even if you stopped being interested in me?”_

_“You’re literally the most interesting person I know. Who’s putting this shit in your head?”_

_“That’s not important—”_

_“I think it is important!” Jack held Gabe’s face close, their noses all but touching. He could feel Gabriel’s breath on his cheeks, and it was hot—hot like his skin, his hands, his whole body. “When will you get it through your thick skull that I’m in this for the long run? That nothing you could ever say or do would make me stop loving you?”_

_Gabe’s eyes were dark, full of love. He leaned a little closer, trying to kiss Jack, but Jack wasn’t done yet. When the Strike Commander spoke, he didn’t like to be interrupted, and this was possibly the most important thing he would ever have to say._

_“What do I have to do, Gabe? Marry you?” He fixed Gabriel with a stern, unwavering look, watching the shock relax into awe coupled with overwhelming adoration that took Jack’s breath away. Trembling, Gabriel reached his hands up to cover Jack’s, their fingers slotting together naturally. Gabriel grinned, and Jack let his own smile break free._

_They could do this. They survived wars together. They survived the whole world trying to drive them apart. And Jack? Jack was pretty sure they could survive anything._

_“Now… that’s an idea,” Gabe said, pulling Jack in for another long, hot kiss that Jack would be thinking about for years, when he would have nothing but cold days and even colder nights._

_For now, he just basked in Gabriel’s heat, the joy swimming between them, and from the way Gabriel pressed against him—_

_Round two._

 

 

Soldier:76 was _cold_. The floor beneath him was cold and dirty, but he only really noticed that first part. He noticed the cold so much because the body bearing down on his was just as cold, the assassin’s lips brutally icy as they took and took and _took_.

The Reaper didn’t take anything that Soldier wasn’t willing to give, and gave he _did_. When Reaper began biting at his lip, 76 opened right up to him without a fight. When Reaper bullied him to the ground, 76 tugged him down on top of him.

Reaper might have been cold as hell, but he felt _solid_. _Real_ in 76’s hands as he grabbed fistfuls of his cloak. Reaper’s knee nudged between 76’s until the soldier opened up for him, giving him space to slot against him. Gabriel was always built thick and strong, but something about this form made him feel so much _bigger_ against 76. He pinned 76 to the floor effortlessly, and 76 wasn’t sure he could get away, even if he wanted to.

“Look at you,” Reaper taunted, lips sliding along his jaw to find purchase on his ear. His voice was deeper than it used to be, more obvious to 76 in this familiar situation. “So pliant for your enemy. How long has it been, Jackie?”

“When was the last time we were together?” 76 asked, his mouth moving before he realized what he was saying. Above him, Reaper stilled; 76 wanted to shoot himself for bringing a sudden halt to their activities.

“Jack,” said Reaper slowly, as if speaking to a stranger. “Jack, that’s been—”

“I know how long it’s been,” 76 snapped back, earning only a rattling growl from the wraith at being cut off. “I remained faithful to my _husband_.”

For a long moment, Reaper stared at him, red eyes alight with awe and disbelief. Then, his expression shifted, and 76 only witnessed the determination for a moment before Reaper was hoisting him up. Back on his feet, he stumbled, only to be caught in Reaper’s sturdy hold.

“You’re not going to do that weird smoke thing, are you?” 76 asked warily, only for Reaper to chuckle darkly.

“Your body wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

76 didn’t argue. He let Reaper drag him down the hallway, the bone mask and 76’s visor still on the hallway floor behind them. It occurred to him to consider whether this was a trap or not. Reaper had been at this old base for a reason, and now he paused to think that maybe this had all been a setup. That the Reaper was preying on his lingering weakness for Gabriel Reyes, using that to lead him toward death.

Suddenly, his back found the wall—or, upon further inspection, a closed door—and Reaper was crowding into his space again. He leaned down to bite meanly at 76’s ear, drawing a sharp gasp from the soldier. “You’re thinking too much, Jack. This is only fun if we’re both participating.”

“We’re seriously going to do this? In an abandoned Overwatch base when we were just trying to kill each other ten minutes ago?”

Reaper blinked at him. “Are you saying you don’t want to fuck?”

76 stiffened, the reality of the situation bearing down on him, and he didn’t know what to say. Reaper took this as encouragement and peppered small, cold kisses along his jawline.

“You know where we are, Jack?”

“A hallway?” Jack quipped, only to have Reaper reach around to his hair and force his head up.

“This is our old room, commander.”

By _their_ room, Reaper meant _Jack Morrison’s_ room, but it was just as much Gabriel Reyes’ room. They’d spent many nights there, getting lost in the feel of each other. Before everything went to hell, before the betrayal and the fighting and the goddamn explosion—it had been nice. _They_ had been nice.

And 76 missed that.

“So what are you waiting for, _commander_?” 76 challenged, a crooked grin curling the corner of his mouth.

Reaper was kissing him the moment the words were out of his mouth. Ungracefully, they stumbled their way through the door, greeted by the musty smell of stale air and dust. 76 tried to think of the last time he’d been in here, but all of his thoughts left him the moment Reaper licked his way into his mouth, his tongue curling in the same way Gabe always used to. 76 groaned against him, falling back and onto the bed, where he was pretty sure a dust cloud rose up to blanket the two of them. 76 couldn’t bring himself to care.

“I didn’t miss that cheeky mouth of yours,” Reaper growled against his lips. Clawed hands reached up to unzip 76’s jacket, eager to get him bare.

“Don’t rip the jacket,” he warned, smacking Reaper’s talons away to remove the jacket himself.

Reaper scoffed. “I can’t believe you’re worried about your damn _jacket_.”

“It’s important to me.”

“You can get another one.”

“I like _this_ one.” 76 rolled the jacket from his shoulders and tossed it onto the bedside table, where it landed next to a framed photograph. When he was younger, 76 liked to do things the old-fashioned way, so he’d went through the trouble of printing out one of their wedding photos and having it framed.

The two men in the picture didn’t even look familiar anymore. They were strangers, so happy as they shoved wedding cake in each other’s faces.

 _Fools_ , 76 thought. If only those two had known what would happen, what would become of them.

A gloveless hand caught his chin, cool fingertips turning his head away from the photograph so that he could see Reaper’s face. So different from the man in the picture but still undeniably familiar. He leveled 76 with an intense stare, frowning, and reached over with his free hand to flip the frame down.

“Stay with me, Jack.”

76 swallowed, trying to return to the present. The change felt jarring, and he was suddenly aware of his age, of what he used to be. Of _how_ he used to be.

“We should do this with our clothes on,” he said definitively.

“Bullshit,” Reaper rumbled. “Give me one good reason.”

“We could be snuck up on. It could be the difference between life and death.”

Reaper loomed closer, growling, “Then I’ll die with my dick up your ass. Is that okay with you?” He reached for Jack’s shirt, and 76 shoved him back. “What the fuck, Morrison?”

“We’re not the same people we used to be, Gabe!” 76 yelled, his voice loud in the empty base. Reaper didn’t budge, still too close, still intent on taking what he wanted. What 76 _still_ wanted to give. “We’re different now, and thinking that everything is going to just _be the same_ is just—”

“Jack.” Reaper leaned down for a surprisingly tender kiss. All of their prior kisses had been frantic, desperate attempts to reconnect. This… _this_ felt like before, the way Gabriel used to go out of his way to make Jack feel loved because he knew how easily everything could end for them. Any day could’ve been their last, so they always wanted to make sure that there was never any doubt what the other one meant to them.

But 76 wasn’t Jack Morrison anymore. He wasn’t the hero that Reaper fell in love with. If he could convince Reaper that this was meaningless, just a casual fuck, then maybe—

“You’re such an idiot,” Reaper mumbled against his mouth, still kissing him slow and sweet, and the contrast to what 76 felt _should_ be happening and what _was_ happening left him reeling with confusion. “You think I won’t like what I see? Is that it?”

“What?” 76 gasped as Reaper slid one cold hand up his shirt, mapping the angles of his chest the way he used to. There were more scars now, which Reaper encountered and traced over a few times with his finger.

“Now isn’t the time to be vain, Jack. We _died_. We got old. I turned into a monster. If you can look past that, I think I can get over how much you’ve let yourself go,” said Reaper, a teasing note to his gruff tones.

“You’re wrong,” Jack insisted, shivering when Reaper put both hands on him to slide his shirt up and off. Reaper hummed, bending down to kiss a chilly line across his collarbone. “You’re not a monster.”

Reaper snarled angrily. He shoved 76 down again, one hand going up to wrap around his throat while the over began to appreciate 76’s recently revealed chest. He squeezed 76’s throat, his red eyes narrow and filled with furious animosity. 76 tried to remain calm, but he couldn’t stop the way his body stiffened and urged him to fight.

“You’re an idiot, Jack Morrison. I’m your worst nightmare! I’ve killed, betrayed, and I haven’t felt an ounce of regret about it! I could kill you right now! _I am a monster_! Say it!” Reaper was shaking, his hand around 76’s throat loosening as he raged. Gabriel always was a bad liar when it came to him, and this was no different.

So 76 reached up to wrap a hand around Reaper’s wrist and said, “ **You’re a monster**.”

Reaper’s shoulders began to sag, his grip all but nonexistent now. 76 took that hand and pulled him down, just a breath away from his mouth. “But so am I.”

He expected Reaper to argue, but he didn’t. He just surged down for a bruising kiss, and that was good enough for 76. He bit his way into 76’s mouth, tasting him as 76 reached up to figure out how the hell he was supposed to get Reaper naked. When he wasn’t making much progress, Reaper chuckled and took over, leaving Jack to watch the layers fall away one by one until Reaper was only wearing his pants.

 _Those_ 76 could take care of. But first, he reached out tentative hands to touch Reaper, his hands finding solid muscle. _Fuck,_ he’d missed those. He leaned up to kiss Reaper’s throat, smirking when Reaper couldn’t hold back a quiet groan of relief.

“Been a while?” he asked, running his hands from Reaper’s shoulders to his waist and back again in appreciation. There were new scars on him as well, and 76 paused to investigate each and every one.

“People aren’t exactly getting in line to hug the Reaper,” he retorted. “Can’t figure it out. Think it’s the mask?”

“Definitely the coat. Long coats are intimidating.”

In retaliation, Reaper reached down to palm Jack’s half-erection through his pants. 76 couldn’t decide if he should welcome that icy touch or squirm away from it. He decided on the former, bucking up against the hand for more friction. Reaper teased him for a moment longer before he finally reached for 76’s zipper.

“You still keep lube in the drawer?” he asked, reaching in to free Jack’s dick. He hummed as he jerked 76 off, pleased to see 76 responding so beautifully.

76 didn’t answer; instead, he reached over for said drawer, yanking it open and fumbling around for the bottle. He found it and passed it to Reaper, who finished yanking down 76’s pants and then his own, kicking both pairs off to the ground. 76 marveled in unabashed appreciation at Reaper’s hardening cock, eager to reach out and stroke it.

But Reaper stopped him with a stern look and a hand around his wrist. “No, Jack.”

“Why the fuck not?” 76 asked, frustrated when Reaper pinned his hand back down on the bed. Their bodies were slotted together, cocks rubbing teasingly, and 76 lifted his hips for more contact. Reaper bent down to for a filthy, wet kiss.

“Because we’re a couple of old men now, and I know exactly what’s gonna happen if I let you get your hands on me. After all this time, you really want this to end prematurely?”

“We only have time for one round?” 76 tried not to sound disappointed. He reached both hands down to Reaper’s hips, urging him to move, and after a moment’s hesitation, Reaper gave in. He ground against 76, his small grunts appreciative and encouraging. “Is once really gonna be enough for you, Reyes? We didn’t get _that_ old.”

“Fuck,” Reaper groaned, quickly uncapping the bottle of lube and squirting a generous amount into his hand. He slicked up both of their cocks, now full and heavy between them, and began to roll his hips in earnest. “You’re so hot, Jack. _So fucking hot_.”

“You aren’t,” 76 teased back, sliding a hand between them to join Reaper’s. Truth be told, he didn’t mind that Reaper ran cold. Amidst the heat swimming between them, Gabriel’s icy skin felt blissfully refreshing against his.

Reaper bit his neck in response, and 76’s hips bucked at the fleeting pain. Reaper’s cool tongue laved the mark, sucking on it to draw out the sensation until 76 began to whimper.

Reaper had been right; neither one of them were going to last long. Maybe years ago, they could have stretched this more, but not now. Not when it had been so long, not when it was _Gabriel_ whose hand he was thrusting into, _Gabriel_ whose fingers kneaded his ass in a bruising grasp.

 _Gabriel_ , who moaned and kissed him as their rhythm became frantic, stuttered bucks against each other. The kiss was more tongue and teeth than anything, but 76 barely noticed, too caught up in chasing his quickly-approaching release. It began as a coil in his stomach, pulling taut until it was almost unbearable, and 76 tried to hold it back because _this couldn’t end yet_. Not yet—not when this might be all they would get—

“Jack.” Reaper caught his gaze, and he looked more human in that moment than he had all night. His eyes swam with lust, with _love_ , and 76 struggled to keep from coming right then and there. “Jack, let go. It’s all right. Just let go.”

“Not—not yet!” 76 all but pleaded.

“Don’t worry, Jack,” said Reaper, knocking away 76’s hand so Reaper could focus on him. He bore down on him, jerking him off at a steady rhythm that made 76 see stars. “I’m not leaving here until I’ve had a piece of your ass again. I promise you that. So fucking let go, Morrison!”

The sharp order was like a shockwave through 76, and his vision went white. He came hard, painting his stomach and Reaper’s fingers. Reaper bent to kiss his unresponsive mouth, nibbling on his bottom lip as the wraith finished too. 76 felt the warmth hit his stomach, mixing with his own, and couldn’t help but smile deliriously.

 _Fuck_ , he’d missed that. Missed how well Gabe knew just how to push him over the edge. He blinked his eyes, trying to refocus, only to see Reaper licking his hand clean. 76’s dick twitched in interest, and Reaper raised an eyebrow.

“I forgot how amazing you taste,” he said, rolling to the side so he could cuddle up next to the soldier. His eyes trailed from 76’s face down to his knees and back again. “I forgot how amazing you _look_ , too. A damn work of art, commander. That’s what you are.”

76 reached over to the stand, knocking the frame off in his search for tissues. He paused, staring at the picture again. He and Gabe looked so happy. So _in love_. He felt a sharp pang in his chest, bitterly jealous of the man in the photo.

If only it was still as easy to tell Reaper how much 76 loved him.

When all of this came to an end, they would have to face what this meant for them. If they chose to pretend it never happened and wet back to killing each other, or if they let this change everything.

That was a problem for later, though. 76 could help but grin when he felt Reaper reach two hands over and begin to knead his ass.

“You’re insatiable.”

Reaper’s response was a rough purr as he pulled 76 back to wrap him up in strong arms and meaty thighs. “You love it.”


	11. Reaper76: Please make it stop/I don't deserve to be loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 17\. “Please, make it stop.” And 21. “I don’t deserve to be loved.”–Reaper76 please, or McHanzo, or Genyatta, or something else I don’t mind which you do (Preferably Reaper76 though) please and thanks<

Gabriel Reyes was bleeding.

No, that wasn’t right. Gabriel Reyes was dead. _Reaper_ was bleeding.

He held the bleeding gunshot wound in his side, trying to think of something other than the pain. Revenge. The burning hatred he felt for his former comrades. The burning hatred he felt for his _current_ comrades.

Reaper took a deep breath. This wasn’t working, just making him tense. He needed to think of something else. He shut his eyes and tried to clear his mind, think of something less stressful.

He thought of sunshine. Not just _sunshine_ in the literal sense. _His_ sunshine. Blond hair and blue eyes and warm hands holding him so tenderly, so _sweetly_ …. Reaper felt himself shuddering and couldn’t figure out if it was from the blood seeping over his fingers or the memories that made it suddenly difficult for him to breathe.

Shit. Stupid. _Stupid_. He should’ve known better than to linger on the past. Remembering all this bullshit wouldn’t help him now. The memories wouldn’t stop his bleeding. Wouldn’t keep him from dying. Again.

Reaper could feel his body trying to fight off the injury, pull him back together like it always had. He just had to hope that he didn’t bleed out before that happened. He leaned his head back against the alley wall, grumbling several low, angry curses.

Dying on Route 66 was just fucking _dumb_. Was there anything more pathetic than letting some remnant from the Deadlock gang get the better of him? It was his own damn fault, too. He hadn’t been paying attention and let himself get distracted.

Reaper couldn’t help it. The piece of him that was still Gabriel Reyes couldn’t help but think about the damn ingrate. McCree had been a kid running with all the wrong people, and when given the choice---

Well. It was still questionable whether joining Overwatch had been a good idea or not. With Overwatch came Blackwatch, and with Blackwatch came—

“ _Reyes, what did you do_?!”

Reaper hissed as he readjusted against the wall, glancing down to see the stain of blood on the building behind him. More dripped thickly over his fingers. No amount of pressure seemed to be helping, and the nanites in his body just couldn’t keep up the pace with the way he was bleeding out.

“Fuck!” he hissed, head thumping back against the wall.

Vaguely, he was aware that he was being watched, but the searing agony in his side kept him from caring too much. Probably just a wild animal or something. Or maybe, if he was lucky, it was somebody else here to put a gun to his head. Who or whatever the hell it was, Reaper didn’t care. He didn’t even bother opening his eyes.

“Reaper.”

Reaper almost laughed. Of course. _Of course_! He would be that lucky. Today of all days, bleeding out in a dirty alleyway on Route 66, of all places. He opened his eyes, finding himself staring up the barrel of Solderi:76’s pulse rifle.

“Hey,” Reaper greeted breathlessly. When 76 didn’t say anything, Reaper decided to make awkward conversation. “You should see the other guy.”

“He dead?” 76 asked.

“I’m bleeding out in an alleyway, and you’re worried about him? Typical.” Reaper scoffed and looked away. He didn’t know what he’d expected. This was Jack Morrison, after all. He could be a judgmental asshole in the best of times.

Which was a lie. But it made Reaper feel better.

“I’m not _worried_ about him,” 76 corrected stonily. “I don’t want to be snuck up on while I’m looking at your sorry ass. If he could get the jump on you, then he must’ve been something.”

“Not really,” Reaper confessed, a little dizzy. “I was distracted.”

“You? Distracted?” 76 sounded surprised. “What could possibly distract you that much?”

Reaper sighed, not wanting to talk to him about this. It was bad enough that he’d been caught unawares, but for Jack to know that it was because Reaper was reminiscing about that idiot cowboy—no. That was just too humiliating to bear.

“Does it matter? I was distracted. I got shot, and now I’m bleeding out. Are you just going to stand there?”

“What do you want _me_ to do about it, Gabe?” Now, he couldn’t see Jack’s eyes through that damn visor, but 76’s tone was borderline frustrated. At least some things didn’t change.

“I don’t know.” Reaper sighed again, at a loss, and finally looked back at the soldier. His aim had started to waver, leaning more away from shooting Reaper because—because _why_? Because he was injured? Dying? Jack didn’t get to take the easy way out because of that shit.

So he reached up, his claw shaking, and grabbed the side of the pulse rifle. 76 watched him (cautiously? Gabriel was going to assume cautiously) but didn’t move to stop the wraith from adjusting Jack’s aim. Reaper leveled the gun with his own forehead, half-tempted to remove his mask just to give Jack a clean shot.

“ **Please, make it stop**.”

Soldier:76 regarded him thoughtfully (probably), most likely considering this once in a lifetime opportunity to take down his mortal enemy. If 76 didn’t do it, then the gunshot wound _would_ , so the ball was in Jack’s park. Reaper just closed his eyes and waited for death.

Next thing he knew, he heard the familiar sound of an emitter hitting the ground, and then a pleasant wave of restoration washed over him. He groaned, feeling the hole in his side stitch back together. His blood began to pump faster, stronger, and his body quit its weak trembling. Reaper felt back to full health, and he didn’t understand it.

He looked up at Jack, who had shouldered his gun but was no doubt ready to defend himself if needed, and Reaper _still_ didn’t understand it.

“I don’t understand,” he decided he needed to voice.

“I’m not going to sit here and watch you die or listen to you ask me to end it for you. I thought you died once, and that was enough for me.”

“I don’t _understand_!” Reaper rose to his feet as rage filled him. He grabbed 76 by the front of his jacket and shoved him up against the wall he’d just been sitting against. This wasn’t how things worked between them! They fought, they tried to kill each other, and they didn’t show any mer—leniency. A much better word.

76 shoved him away, apparently not in the mood to be manhandled. “I don’t give a shit if you understand or not! You may have it in your head that you need to kill me, but I _mourned you_ , Gabriel. I visited your damn grave!”

“And whose fault is it that I died, huh?” Reaper shot back at him, eager for the fight he knew Morrison would give him.

But Jack simply scoffed and shook his head. “Ours. Both of ours. We caused this mess together, Reyes.”

Reaper snorted, the fight all but leaving him. He was too tired for this shit, and just then, fighting didn’t seem important anymore. “Yeah. Sounds like us.”

“Where do you think it all went wrong?” 76 asked quietly, his voice almost lost to the winds.

Reaper knew. He could pinpoint the exact moment where everything started to fall apart. Flashes of Italy filled his mind, of Antonio’s body flying out the window, of McCree furious at him—

Of that woman smirking, as if this had been her plan all along, as if she knew what would happen now that Reyes had gone down this path.

Reaper said nothing. He stalked toward the alley exit, wondering how far he could get and if Jack would follow him. 76 turned his head, watching the Reaper pass him without a fight, and his stance relaxed a little.

No, the Soldier wouldn’t be following him tonight. This had been a chance meeting, nothing more than both of them being in the wrong place at the right time. Reaper would let him go without a fight this time. That seemed like proper etiquette, considering Jack had saved his life and all.

“Gabriel.” 76’s voice was rough, but Reaper couldn’t pinpoint the emotion there. Reaper paused, turning to face him. It was goddamn unfair how beautiful his silhouette looked, all shadowy and magnificent in the darkness. Reaper fought the urge to go to him, reach out, and just wrap himself up in those strong arms.

But that would be a lie, and Reaper was far beyond lying to himself.

“I really loved you back then,” said Soldier:76, turning his head to look at Reaper. He couldn’t see his eyes, but Reaper remembered the exact shade of blue they were. The kind of blue that wouldn’t lie, that shone with trust and sincerity. Reaper shivered. “I still do.”

Reaper growled, memories overwhelming him again. Memories of sunshine, of Jack’s smile coming closer for a kiss. Of long nights in each other’s arms and even longer mornings, where one of them would always be drawn back for one more kiss time and time again.

The piece of him that was still Gabriel Reyes wanted all of that back, _knew_ Jack would give it to him if he asked.

The Reaper knew better.

“ **I don’t deserve to be loved** ,” he said with finality, turning away from all he’d ever wanted so he could step back into the shadows, bide his time, get revenge.

He almost didn’t hear Jack’s reply, cold and honest, words that followed him through lonely days and cold nights. One phrase that filled his body with doubt and kept the memories returning over and over until Reaper—no, _Gabriel Reyes_ —thought he might go mad with them.

“As if that’ll stop me.”


	12. Genyatta: You are beautiful. How could you not see that?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "5 genyatta?"
> 
> 5\. "“You are beautiful. How could you not see that?"

Shuriken flew through the air, implanting themselves in nearby trees. Genji followed through, slicing through foliage to reach said trees, which he struck with armored hands. One hand was still flesh and stung from the impact. In the other, Genji felt nothing.

_Ugly. Inhuman. Strange._

With a cry of anger, he powered through, flying back and tossing more shuriken until he had none left to throw. His sword came out next, spinning with him as he attacked tree after tree, leaving chunks of dying wood in his wake. He paused to catch his breath, glancing around at the chaos he had created.

Leaves still lingered in the air, drifting slowly toward the dirt and grass. The trees before him were mauled, as mangled as his own body. His own ugly, disgusting, scarred—

Roaring again, Genji moved to attack again but lost his footing as he slid through a pile of leaves. He yelped, tripping forward and crashing against the tree he’d just been maiming. At the last moment, he managed to catch himself against the trunk, but the momentum carried him right into another tree.

“Shit!” he groaned, feeling the vibrations all the way through his helmet. He leaned against the rough wood, picking at pieces of chipping trunk and watching them fall to the ground to join his mess.

His master would probably frown upon this. Zenyatta loved nature, always called it pure and without bias. The perfect atmosphere for meditation.

Genji disagreed with that last part. He found nature distracting, loud, disruptive. Not ideal for productive meditating. He could never get over the noise. The bugs landing on him. The unpredictability. Zenyatta said that he just needed practice.

“There you are, my student. I wondered where you disappeared to.”  
Genji turned, his limbs tangled amongst the tree branches, to look at Zenyatta. The omnic was looking happy, decorated with strings of beads and feathers. Last Genji had seen him, the neighbor children had been dancing around him, giggling about his orbs and asking him innocent questions about the Shambali.

Genji shrugged, attempting to look casual amidst the mayhem he’d created. His head throbbed, but he didn’t give any indication he might be hurting. “I went for a walk.”

“I can see that,” said Zenyatta, laughing pleasantly. “What happened here?”

Genji said the first thing that came to mind. “Wild boar.”

“Boar?” Zenyatta laughed again, a pleasing lilt that made Genji smile. “More like a wild dragon. What troubles you?”

“Nothing,” said Genji quickly, turning away in shame when Zenyatta leveled him with a long stare. “It is unimportant.”

“If it is important to you, then it is important. Especially to me.” Zenyatta drifted closer, his head tilted in concern. “Are you injured?”

“No, I am—” But before Genji could finish, an orb of harmony appeared above his head, hovering there comfortingly and restoring his minor aches and pains. Genji slumped, feeling spoiled in a way that he had never experienced before. The members of the clan had always spoiled him because of his last name. Because he was a Shimada.

Zenyatta spoiled him out of genuine concern. Because he _cared_. Sometimes, Genji didn’t know how to handle that.

“Thank you, master,” he murmured humbly, bowing his head in respect.

Zenyatta held up a hand in modesty and waved off Genji’s gratitude. “Would you like to talk about what is bothering you now? I thought you were enjoying your time with the local female population. You were—what did you call it? Flirting in good nature.

Genji furrowed his brow at Zenyatta’s tone. He usually didn’t sound so… vague? Vague. As if distinctly trying to keep an emotion from his voice. Genji decided not to comment; if Zenyatta wished to share his private feelings, then he would. It was not Genji’s place to pry.

Still… if Genji didn’t know better….

“Master… are you jealous?” Genji asked tentatively.

Zenyatta looked as shock as an omnic could. “Jealous? I do not know what jealousy feels like. It is not something I have ever experienced.”

“You do not like it when I spend time with others. There is no need to worry, Master. Just because I flirted with some girls does not mean that I care for you any less.”

“I—I am not—you may spend your time as you please!” Zenyatta insisted, his flustered orbs spinning wildly. Genji smiled a little, chuckling quietly as he began to dislodge himself from between the trees. “Were you not telling me why you are troubled, my student?”

“Ah! I told you, it is nothing.” Genji tripped not-so-gracefully to stand in front of Zenyatta and bowed in respect. “Shall we return to the village now? You can continue educating the children on the Shambali.”

“And you may continue… _flirting_.”

Genji looked down at the ground between them. He saw the evidence of his outburst, broken branches and dying leaves scattered about his feet, and felt a new pang of guilt. He was no better than his brother, slaying such innocent life only trying to thrive.

Though, the trees were undoubtedly more innocent than he had been.

A hand touched his arm, the barest of grazes and then firmer until Zenyatta’s fingers were wrapped around his armor. “Stay. Please.”

Genji nodded, grounding himself and took a deep breath. “No, master. I shall not continue flirting. I… may I tell you about my past?” Genji looked up at his master, who gazed at him so intently, he almost turned away.

“You may tell me about anything; I am always willing to listen,” Zenyatta said, his words a sincere promise that gave Genji the chills. Finally, he looked away, unable to handle such intensity any longer.

“When I was younger, when I was… _whole_ , I admit that I was very vain. I was always told how beautiful and attractive I was, and I believed them. It felt like they were praising me for something that was _mine_. Not my title, not my bloodline. My beauty. I realize now that those people only called me attractive because of my bloodline, but it was still something I could hold onto from my old life.”

Genji took a deep breath. Zenyatta said nothing; his orbs only rotated thoughtfully, considering Genji’s words as he waited for the ninja to continue.

“Those girls today… when I was talking to them, I was not wearing my visor. They were nice enough to my face, but when I returned from getting them tea… I heard them talking about my face. My scars. How I was… how I was only _half_ a person. This body is ugly and strange, not beautiful.” Genji looked down at his hands, which were covered in white armor and concealing of what existed beneath. What little of him still existed. Bitterly, he laughed and dropped his hands, letting them fall and sway limply at his sides. “I did not realize how much it would bother me. I suppose it is an insignificant thing to be upset about.”

“Do not trivialize your feelings. They are yours and could be nothing other than significant.” When Genji looked up, he noticed Zenyatta had drifted closer. The omnic’s hands were raised, as if reaching for Genji but lacked the confidence to actually touch him. He managed to look bashful as he quietly requested, “May I?”

Dumbfounded, Genji nodded. He stood exceptionally still (Hanzo would have been proud, he thought with a small sting in his heart) and watched as Zenyatta’s hands came closer to his face. With deft fingers, Zenyatta released the latch on Genji’s helmet and removed it, bending to nestle caringly in a pile of leaves. Genji blinked a few times, reacclimating to the natural, unfiltered light, and focused immediately on the omnic before him. His master. The only one he felt he could trust with all things.

Including such an intimate touch. Genji held his breath as Zenyatta reached out once more, his fingertips cool as they touched the uneven skin of his cheeks. His master did not shrink away in disgust, nor did he wince in pity at what had been done to the once proud Shimada.

Zenyatta tilted his head, his fingers holding Genji as if he might be priceless. As if he might cherish him above all. And Genji all but melted into the contact. It had been so long since he’d allowed such contact; he could remember Angela with her warm, clinical fingertips as they examined his body for malfunctions. He remembered Lena, casually slinging an arm across his shoulder as she chatted amicably. And Jesse, their hands brushing as they exchanged a bottle of whiskey that burned but helped him forget the pain.

But Zenyatta’s hands—his hands helped him _live_. Genji felt rejuvenated. He felt valued. He felt—

Zenyatta’s thumbs brushed across his cheeks, and Genji realized then that he was crying. He hadn’t cried in years, not since—

_Please, brother!_

Genji reached up to grasp Zenyatta’s hands, all but clinging to the cool comfort his master provided. He went willingly when Zenyatta began to pull him in and breathed a sigh of overwhelming relief when their foreheads touched. The gesture was so pure but filled with so much meaning that it brought fresh tears to Genji’s eyes, even more arriving when Zenyatta spoke hushed, personal words that Genji felt resonate within his soul. The words wrapped around him, blanketing him, cushioning him from the unforgiving world, and bringing him more peace than any session of meditating ever had.

Zenyatta held him close, his wonderfully honest words lost to the trees but not to the ninja they were meant for. “ **You are beautiful. How could you not see that**?”


	13. McHanzo: You left me. What else was I supposed to do?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "If you're still accepting drabble requests, can it be 26 mchanzo? "
> 
> 26\. "You left me. What else was I supposed to do."

Hanzo had been abandoned.

This was no matter. He’d been expecting as much when he agreed to join Overwatch. He knew that everyone knew what he had done. That they all adored his brother (because _everybody_ adored Genji) and would look down upon him for what he had done to destroy Genji’s life.

And things were… _strained_ , so to say. Most of the other agents, the older ones who had been there and had seen firsthand what Hanzo had done, treated him with cool, polite indifference. They did not go out of their way to avoid him, but they also didn’t go out of their way to _include_ him, either. The newer agents were a little more warm toward him but no less wary.

Hanzo was no fool. He was not welcome in Overwatch, so it was no surprise that he had been abandoned in this old, drafty safehouse with little food, no interior heating, and no estimated time of pickup. This would be a easy way to get rid of him. Genji would never suspect foul play, not from the people who helped him when Hanzo—

Hanzo shivered and tried to curl into an even tighter ball. The blankets were old and thin and provided little comfort against the cold. Hanzo’s breath puffed out in front of him as he sighed and tried to tuck his limbs close, his legs sore from where cold metal bit into trembling flesh.

Freezing to death was not an honorable way to go, but did a man like Hanzo truly deserve more? He had been trying to seek redemption, but perhaps his efforts had not been enough. Sure, Genji had forgiven him, but that was the result of Zenyatta’s guidance and his own acceptance of what he had become. Nothing to do with Hanzo.

The door opened, effectively pulling Hanzo from his train of self-loathing. He pulled his face out from beneath the blankets to see the dark shadow of his partner approach the bed and cross his arms. Ah, this was another reason why Hanzo just _knew_ that everyone at Overwatch hated him: they left him to freeze to death with the object of his affections.

Hanzo’s particular appreciation for Jesse McCree had been a slow, unexpected surprise. The two of them often spent sleepless nights in the practice range, trading pleasantries and nothing else. Then the cowboy had suggested they see who could take down more training bots, and the rest just happened. McCree started seeking Hanzo out more, usually for another friendly competition and other times for a quiet drink. In the beginning, they spoke little, but over time, the two of them forged an interesting, if slightly awkward friendship.

And that was when Hanzo began noticing things about him. The warm way his eyes would light up when he was excited or interested. The cocky smile he wore when he tried to make impressive trick shots just to show Hanzo up. The embarrassed flush to his cheeks when he failed. How he always tipped a hat in greeting one of the other agents, even if he was not wearing a hat. The rare moments of quiet when he drank, where Hanzo could see the ghosts of his past begin to bleed onto his face.

Hanzo could not believe how incredibly lucky he was to witness all of this firsthand, and he found that he liked to watch McCree to see what other things he could discover about the cowboy. He thought his interest had been purely innocent, as if toward a potential friend.

Peering up at the cowboy now, imagining how his hip would be cocked just so, one singular eyebrow raised, that tilt of a smirk on his lips… Hanzo knew it was not so.

“You stole my blanket,” McCree accused, a little short of breath from his trek out in the snow.

“ **You left me. What else was I supposed to do** ,” Hanzo grumbled, curling up tighter out of spite.

McCree laughed, and Hanzo thought he saw him shaking his head. “Got me there. How about I start a fire an’ get you all warmed up?”

“That would be appreciated.” Hanzo watched McCree’s silhouette leave the side of the bed and return to the door. McCree opened it again, pulled in some firewood, and shut the door again. Hanzo was impressed; he didn’t feel even a slight draft of winter air.

 McCree rustled around for a few minutes, throwing logs into the fireplace. Seconds later, and Hanzo could feel the warm glow of fire filling the room. Now he could see McCree fussing around the growing fire, perfectly arranging the logs so they would burn the longest. Catching Hanzo’s eyes, he grinned a little.

“When I was on the run, I spent a lotta time out in the middle of nowhere. Had to learn the best way to build a fire. I ain’t a master at it or anythin’ like that, but I do all right.”

“Better than what I would have done,” Hanzo praised as he sat up a little. The safehouse was still chilly, but the cold was no longer unbearably bitter. He watched McCree take off his hat and serape, then kick off his boots. He was dropping his armor onto the floor when he started talking again, as if Hanzo wasn’t sitting there ogling him like some teenage girl.

“Got ahold o’ Winston. Finally. Had to head all the way out to the middle o’ nowhere to reach ‘im.”

“We are already in the middle of nowhere,” Hanzo pointed out, feeling a bit of his good humor returning now that he felt less like a block of ice.

“All right, so I guess I had to go back towards _somewhere_. Anyway, he said once the storm clears, he’ll get us outta here. We just ain’t allowed to kill each other.”

“I make no promises,” said Hanzo curtly, but McCree only laughed at his serious tone.

“Come on, Han. You an’ I both know you’d never kill me.” McCree winked devilishly, and Hanzo could feel blood rising to his face. “I think ya like me too much.”

“A ridiculous notion,” said Hanzo, aiming for flippant but hitting something along the lines of stiff. “What is there to like about you? Your silly hat? Your childish belt buckle?”

“My devilish good looks? My charming personality?” McCree shrugged confidently, as if his point had been proven, and looked around the room once. “So I’ll let you have the bed, and I’ll—”

“Unacceptable,” Hanzo interrupted immediately, already regretting his decision to open his mouth. McCree regarded him curiously, and Hanzo quickly looked away. “There is no reason for one of us to be uncomfortable. The bed is big enough for the both of us.”

“You sure you just don’t wanna cuddle up to me since you’re so cold?” McCree teased, already sauntering his way over to the bed.

“You caught me. Self-preservation is obviously my motive.” Hanzo scooted over, unraveling some of the blankets so he could return McCree’s. Once McCree fell asleep, he would be able to scoot closer and bask in his body heat. Until then, he would have to suffer with one blanket.

McCree knelt on the bed and began to unwrap Hanzo completely. “Come on, now,” he said, as calm as if he were taming a wild horse. “I know you Shimadas. Genji always got cold on missions, and it put him in one hell of an awful mood.”

The reminder of how well McCree knew Genji shocked Hanzo into stilling, and that was long enough for McCree to gather the blankets up. He spread one out over the bed and then draped the over on top of it. Hanzo was about to protest, say that he would much rather have his own blanket and his own space when McCree got under the covers with him.

The moment he felt the heat radiating off the cowboy, Hanzo gravitated towards him, pride be damned. He let McCree gather him up in strong arms and tuck him close, their legs tangling almost naturally. As Hanzo tucked his face into the crook of McCree’s neck and breathed deep, he was struck by how _right_ this felt. McCree held him as if he’d been doing it forever, and Hanzo shivered as a pang of bitterness slid into his stomach.

McCree was just being _nice_. This meant _nothing_. Something he probably did for _Genji_. Hanzo had been thinking about what it would be like to be in McCree’s arms for so long, it would be a shame to let such thought sour his experience, and yet….

“This okay?” McCree asked, having felt Hanzo stiffen suddenly.

Hanzo swallowed. “Is this what you used to do for Genji?”

McCree snorted. “Hell no. I threw ‘im my serape and told ‘im to make do. Couldn’t have ‘im gettin’ the wrong idea.”

Hanzo had the pleasure of hearing McCree’s drawl vibrate against his cheek, and he had to take a deep breath before he trusted himself to speak again. “What might that be?”

“That I like ‘im more than I actually do.” McCree’s flesh hand smoothed along Hanzo’s spine, the weight of it warm and welcoming. “Don’t get me wrong, I like yer brother well enough, just not enough to get up close and personal.”

A smile grew on Hanzo’s mouth, one which he knew McCree could feel against the skin of his throat. His heart felt so full, he worried it might burst, but he still needed to hear McCree say it. Take away any room for misinterpretation. “So what should I take away from this, McCree? How can you be certain that I will not get the wrong idea as well?”

“Well, darlin’,” began McCree, leaning back so he could see Hanzo’s face. He smiled, a little nervous as he moved his hand from Hanzo’s back to instead cup his cheek. “That’d be mighty hard to do in a few seconds. If… yer okay with that, Han.”

Hanzo reached a hand up to slide into McCree’s hair, still slightly wet from the outside snow. McCree’s eyes lit up with excitement, softening into something beautiful that warmed Hanzo all the way down to his toes. McCree went willingly as Hanzo began to pull him down, rising up himself to meet the cowboy halfway.

“Then let us clear the air between us, shall we?”

And true to his word, McCree made sure that Hanzo didn’t get cold for the rest of the night.


	14. Reaper76: I can't lose you/Don't call me that

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> iceblurg asked: "OH SHIT 4 AND 14 FOR REAPER76"
> 
> 4\. “I can’t lose you. I couldn’t even fathom it.”
> 
> 14\. “Don’t call me that.”

Gabriel Reyes was in deep shit.

He walked toward his room, bones weary, shoulders sagging from the night’s stress. At the moment, all he wanted to do was crawl in his room and pretend Rialto never happened. That the whole fucking Blackwatch mission had never happened. Then maybe he could get Jack’s face out of his head—that stunned look of disbelief, of frustration, of anger.

Betrayal. Gabe had made a pretty big mess of things, and he still wasn’t sure if he was sorry or not. He should be feeling a little guilty, right? It should bother him that he started a literal shitstorm that they would all suffer from for—for—for how long?

It didn’t matter. Antonio was dead. Somebody would step up to take his place, but at least that was one less Talon son of a bitch in the world.

When Gabriel entered his room, he was surprised to find Jack there. The blond was sitting on the bed, shoes off, dressed down in a pair of sweatpants and one of Gabriel’s old Overwatch shirts. The logo, though faded into nothing but a splotchy design against grey cotton, still looked inspiring from its place on Jack’s chest.

Jack could inspire anybody, even dressed casually. Hell, _Gabe_ was pretty sure he would follow Jack into battle with that on. He was probably a little biased, but Jack—Jack was the golden boy. The one with the statue, and it was well-deserved. He was the light in the darkness after a long, long day, even when the prospect of night looked even longer.

Belatedly, once he’d stopped and stared his fill of the Strike Commander, Gabe hoped that Jack wasn’t there to yell at him some more. He’d heard enough of it in the debriefing room, and he just wasn’t in the mood. Everybody was mad at him. McCree wouldn’t talk to him. Moira kept wearing that disconcerting smile of hers that made Gabriel’s skin crawl. Genji… well, he wasn’t quite sure what was going through the quiet ninja’s mind.

And Jack was just disappointed. He hadn’t said as much, but Gabe could real him like an open book. There had been disappointment in the hard, almost detached narrow of his blue eyes, in the tight press of his mouth as he tried not to tell Gabriel what he _really_ thought of the mission. In the hunch of his shoulders, his perfect posture bending at last under the weight of what Gabe had done.

And that had just been at the meeting. Now, Jack just looked tired. He kept his head down, not looking at Gabriel. Not even flinching as Gabe began the tedious task of removing his armor. His gear went next, and he winced at the sight of his wild, greasy hair when he removed his beanie. He ran his fingers through it, giving up after the first try, and then ambled over to the dresser to find something more comfortable to wear. He almost went commando, but Jack didn’t look like he was in the mood.

Hell, Gabriel wasn’t even in the mood. He just felt too bone-weary, his limbs growing too heavy to do much more than tug on a pair of sweatpants. These must’ve been Jack’s; they felt a little tight in the thighs and they were covered in American flags. Gabe didn’t care; if Jack was allowed to wear his shirt, then Gabe was allowed to wear his pants. They’d arrived at that point in their relationship a long time ago.

Unless Gabriel had fucked that up, too. He could almost feel it—a canyon-sized rift forming between them, tugging and pulling them apart. Gabe had to wonder how much longer until one of them gave up and let go. If Jack wasn’t so damn stubborn, Gabe would’ve put his money on _him_ , but Jack never let anything go. Not without a fight. Gabe could only hope that meant their relationship as well.

Finally, Gabe couldn’t take it anymore. He broke the silence, stuck between putting on a shirt and just forgoing one for the night. It wasn’t like he ever got cold. And if Jack was in the mood to cuddle, Gabriel would get to feel those strong, calloused hands mapping familiar locations on his chest, his arms, his back—

This was, of course, in the event Jack wasn’t there to break up with him for risking everything they’d worked so hard to achieve. Wearing _Gabriel’s shirt_ to do it was an interesting choice. Probably a power move or some sht.

“So, Strike Commander Morrison, to what do I owe this pleasure? Here to yell at me some more?” Gabe asked, trying his best to sound nonchalant. Gabe thought he just sounded pathetic.

Jack turned his head away and inhaled a short, sharp breath of air through his nose. “ **Don’t call me that**. Not here.”

Gabriel sighed himself, walking over to sit beside Jack on the bed. He left ample room between them, giving Jack the option to close the distance if he wanted. “Sorry, Jackie. It’s been a long—” Gabe cut himself off and never finished. Life was just _long_ right now. “Anyway, if you are here to yell at me more, can it wait until morning? I’m fucking tired.”

“I’m not here to yell at you,” Jack murmured, still staring off at some unknown object in the far corner of the room.

Gabriel nodded a little. “Well if you’re here to break up with me—”

“What?” Jack turned to look at him now, his brow furrowed in surprise.

Gabe shrugged and rubbed at the back of his neck. “You heard me, Jackie. If you wanna break up, wait until tomorrow morning for that, too. I’m at my limit for tonight.”

Jack was silent for a long time, blue eyes incredulous when Gabriel risked a glance. He didn’t want to know what was going through Jack’s head. Whatever it was, it was probably going to ruin his night. What he didn’t expect was Jack to angrily grumble, “Gabriel, you’re a fucking idiot.”

He couldn’t help a small chuckle. “So you’ve told me. At least fifteen times earlier.”

“Yeah, but this tops everything you’ve done in the past twenty-four hours.”

“Now, hold on a minute—”

“I could’ve _lost you_ , Gabriel.” Jack’s voice changed, hardened into that of Strike Commander Morrison. This conversation was inching closer to either another lecture or a speech by the golden boy. Usually, Gabriel liked hearing his speeches. Usually, they weren’t directed at _him_.

“I told you, I had the situation—”

“If you tell me you had the situation under control _one more time_ ,” Jack all but growled, grabbing Gabe by the shoulders and forcing him to face him at last. Jack looked completely _distraught_ , his eyes shining and his jaw clenched tight to keep his lips from trembling. Guilt pooled in the pit of Gabriel’s stomach.

Finally. Guilt. But not guilt for killing Antonio. Guilt for hurting Jack, for filling him with such anguish that Gabriel could feel it in the shake of his fingertips. He reached a hand out, wondering if he was allowed to touch, to comfort, to pull Jack close and let him know that it would all be okay. He just didn’t want to piss Jack off more.

But Jack was eager, accepting, still infuriated but desperate enough to feel Gabriel’s touch that he grabbed his wrist and placed his hand on Jack’s cheek. Gabriel raised his other hand to mirror the first, cradling Jack’s perfect jawline in his hands and watching as Jack melted against him.

“Do you have any idea what it was like for me? I had to listen to Fio report everything that was happening, and I couldn’t do a damn thing to help you,” Jack whispered, his voice still harsh and cutting but softening. He was losing his stride, his anger ebbing away bit by bit.

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel murmured, and he was. Still not sorry for what had happened, but more than for what it was doing to _them_.

“You could have _died_.”

Gabriel scoffed, watching the spark of fury reignite in Jack’s eyes. He chose his next words carefully. “I’ve been through worse. Hell, we both have.”

“But I was always with you then. Through the training, through the war, through everything—I was _with you_ , watching your back, making sure you were covered when you did something stupid and reckless.”

“Are you saying you don’t trust my team?” Gabriel felt a little affronted by that. He thought they worked pretty well together, even in the shitstorm that was Rialto. Even if they were angry at him (McCree, especially), they still watched out for him.

Jack heaved a sigh and turned his face to press a kiss first to one of Gabriel’s palms and then the other. “You don’t get it. Your team’s fine. Great, even. Impressive. Some of the best _led by the best_. But they aren’t me. They might care about you, but they don’t—” He cut himself off with a deep breath.

He didn’t need to say any more; Gabriel understood very well. He’d felt much the same, watching Jack run off into battle against omnics with only a handful of people that could be trusted to take care of the commander. He knew Ana would watch out for Jack. And Angela, Reinhardt—but none of them were as invested as Gabriel was. None of them made Jack their sole focus, let their world revolve around him in the heat of battle the way that Gabe did, and that alone drove him up the fucking wall sometimes.

They did better together. They always had, even before their relationship developed into something more. Gabe trusted Jack implicitly. Jack… he wasn’t so sure anymore. Not after Rialto. Not after Gabriel exposed everything they’d worked so hard to achieve.

Not after Gabe put himself in such danger like that.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Gabe said again.

Jack shook his head. He reached up to cup Gabriel’s face, holding him tightly as if to make sure he was still real, still solid, still Jack’s. Gabriel would always be Jack’s, certain that nothing could ever happen between them that would make Gabriel turn his back on him.

Later, when everything went to shit and the Reaper walking in Gabriel’s place had been _sure_ that he’d been wrong, he _still_ belonged to Jack Morrison. That would never change.

“ **I can’t lose you** ,” said Jack, his words a heavy shroud weighing on Gabriel’s shoulders. “ **I couldn’t even fathom it**.”

“Hey, you won’t lose me. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” Gabriel pulled him closer to pepper soft kisses along his cheeks and nose.

“No more stupid stunts,” Jack insisted, closing his eyes against the affection as if it might weaken his resolve. “No more killing people.”

“Even if they deserve it?” Gabe meant it as a joke, but then Jack fixed him with a bland look.

“ _Especially_ if they deserve it. Give justice a chance to work its miracles.”

Jack was a fool if he thought _justice_ would win out in the end. That honorable men like them could go forth and keep their hands clean of blame, of the stains of blood, so long as they followed the rules and didn’t step out of line. A fool’s dream and one that Gabe had stopped indulging in long ago.

But Jack was _his_ fool, and so Gabe pulled him in at last for a kiss, all slow and sweet and everything Jack needed right then. Everything they _both_ needed. A kiss to remind themselves that they were alive, together, and still in love. A kiss to ground Gabe and a kiss to give Jack peace of mind.

That kiss was a promise.

A promise Gabriel wouldn’t keep.

If only he’d known then that their kisses were numbered.


	15. Reaper76: You are beautiful/I don't think it was supposed to turn out like this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> iceblurg asked: "Bruh if you’re still taking prompts: 5 and 6 for reaper76?"
> 
> 5\. “You are beautiful. How could you not see that?”
> 
> 6\. “I don’t think it was supposed to turn out like this.”

Dorado was eerily beautiful at night. The half-moon danced shadows across alleyway doors, shining upon luminescent graffiti and giving the hard edges of the city a dark, ominous tone. The night was almost quiet, save for the yelling, the gunshots, the raw fury echoing off Dorado’s winding streets. The rapid fire of a pulse rifle—the methodical thunder of twin shotguns—helix rockets crashing into a wall and dismembering it, leaving behind only shattered brick and a floating cloud of dust.

The two ghosts moved rapidly through the dark cover of the night, engaged in a deadly game of cat-and-mouse, though which was the cat and which was the mouse could never be quite clear. They were both simultaneously, each of them believing that they were the leader in this violent dance of gunfire until one of them gained the upper hand momentarily.

Just then, Soldier:76 had the upper hand. He chased the menace known as the Reaper, a foe of his own making and undoing. His emotions ran high, his finger trigger-happy and his breath short. He didn’t stop sprinting after the wraith, though his shots were aimed more to impede than injure.

His opponent had not shared the same courtesy, and so 76 was nursing an angry wound in his shoulder. That didn’t stop him, and it definitely didn’t slow him down. He’d been through the SEP, wars, and rough days on the road as a vigilante; it would take a lot more to even break his stride.

The Reaper knew this, knew 76 as well as he knew himself, and wasn’t about to take it easy on him. Logically, 76 knew he had to be careful, but the fury boiling his blood and pushing his legs to keep going demanded recklessness.

Reaper tried to take a hard left, and Jack decorated the wall with an array of bullets to cut him off. That second of hesitation was just enough for 76 to crash right into him, pinning him against the colorful tag of _Los Muertos_. Reaper snarled, struggled, pushed against him with all of his weight, and 76 nearly lost his footing. Reaper was built solid and powerful, but all of that strength could be a weakness if 76 planted himself sound enough against him.

After a moment, Reaper stopped struggling. Humidity and tension burned between them, coiling in the pit of 76’s stomach as he tried to catch his breath. He’d won, for now. He had Reaper trapped between himself and the wall, but he knew it would only be a matter of seconds before the wraith turned to smoke and slid out of his grasp.

He had to make this quick.

Slamming the Reaper back against the wall, 76 snarled, “Let me see your face!” His own voice sounded grating, raw, and overemotional, but he didn’t give a damn.

Reaper’s eyes were on him, and he felt more than heard his incredulous scoff. “What the fuck makes you think you can start making demands, boy scout?”

“Goddamn it, Gabriel!” 76 tossed down his gun so he could grip Reaper’s cloak with both hands and shake him a little. Unarming himself around his most lethal enemy probably wasn’t a good idea, not when Reaper’s shotguns were still at his sides, but this matter seemed more important than impending doom. “Take off the mask!”

“Why?” Reaper demanded right back, his low growl menacing enough that it sent a shiver through 76. Next, his tone rang with promise, the threat real and dangerous. “What reason could you possibly have for wanting to see your murderer’s face?”

“You know why!” There was no doubt in Soldier:76 that Reaper knew what today was. Gabriel was always the one obsessed with anniversaries. He remembered the strangest dates—their first kiss, their first night together, the first time he ate Jack’s food and didn’t vomit—so for Reaper to be asking… asking _why_ when he _had to know_ ….

76 was starting to lose his stride, the low pain building in his heart. Did Reaper really not know what day it was? His hands were slipping, so he gripped Reaper’s cloak as tight as he could and ignored the pain flaring in his shoulder.

“Just… let me see you, Gabriel. I’m not asking for much.”

Reaper sighed, as if 76 really was asking for too much. The soldier deflated more, his grip slackening. He might as well pick up his pulse rifle so they could go back to killing each other. That was more productive than this.

But then Reaper surprised him. He began to reach up toward the bone mask, meager moonlight glinting across his claws. “I should warn you now, Jackie. I’m not as pretty as I used to be.”

The mask fell away, and the sight stole 76’s breath. He recognized Gabriel Reyes, but at the same time, he did not. There were more scars now and brilliant red where his eyes were once brown. 76 longed to reach out, touch skin that looked somewhat grayer than it used to be, but the narrow of Gabe’s eyes warned him against it.

“Your turn,” said Gabriel, the threat still present.

76 scoffed but listened. Some things never changed, and he figured that Gabe making aggressive demands of him was one of them. He released the latch on his visor and lifted it from his face, blinking his eyes to readjust to the light.

Gabe laughed once, dark and humorless. “Look at you. Still a goddamn work of art.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.” Gabe narrowed his eyes. “Even with scars, you’re still….” He ground his teeth and shook his head, his tongue shooting out to wet his upper lip. Jack wanted to shake him. That was how half of their fights used to go—Gabe wetting his lip, drawing Jack’s attention, and ending with one of them pressed up against a wall somewhere.

Hell, they were halfway there already.

But the memory of the last time they were truly face to face like this gripped Jack’s heart. His grasp on Gabe’s cloak was tightening again, he hated himself for how vulnerable he must look in front of his enemy.

“Jack…?” Gabriel actually sounded a little worried, as if the soldier’s sudden quiet was something to be concerned about. This was not their norm—not anymore, at least. They were used to fighting now, all guns and violence and angry words, not longing, painful looks or touches that lasted too long.

“Gabe,” Jack murmured with a slight shake of his head. His voice, a gruff imitation of what had once been pleasant to the ear, sounded desperate in the quiet night. “ _Gabriel_. **You are beautiful**. **How could you not see that**?”

Gabriel said nothing, as if stunned into silence. Jack swallowed, trying to stifle the build of emotions in his chest. He failed.

“You remember what today is, don’t you? You always remembered everything.”

The tension between them pulled taut, and Jack held his breath.  searched his face, as if trying to detect a hint of trickery, but Jack kept himself open, bare. Vulnerable.

Gabriel let out a loud breath, and just like that, the pressure in the air evaporated. Jack swayed a little, getting used to this sudden shift, and braced himself against Gabe. The familiarity made his eyes burn. His shoulder twinged.

 “It’s the anniversary of the last time I saw your ridiculously attractive mug.”

And Gabe was right. Of course he was right. It was the anniversary of their fight. Not just any fight because they were almost always fighting there at the end. The most important, literally explosive fight. The one where they both died but didn’t die.

“I’m surprised you remembered,” said Gabe conversationally.

“We both _died_ , Gabriel.”

“You got the better funeral.”

“I guess they liked me better.” Jack shrugged, finding it easy to fall into their old banter. It had been nice. Before Rialto, before all those arguments that didn’t seem so important anymore—Gabriel had been his only constant. Jack missed that.

“Everybody liked you better,” Gabe pointed out, the ghost of a smile curling at his lips.

“Not everybody,” Jack argued, feeling his shoulders slump in exhaustion. “Gabe… what happened to us?”

“Marital dispute?” Gabe raised an eyebrow.

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” He tossed down his shotguns and raised his chin; if Jack hadn’t been so close, he probably would’ve crossed his arms. Jack recognized the look; that was always the stare he got when he was in trouble, when he forgot they had plans or overworked himself into exhaustion. He shuddered from the memories.

“I can’t believe you hunt me down _now_ instead of last week’s anniversary.”

Jack scoffed. “Which one?”

“The important one.” Gabriel shifted, serious again. He reached a tentative hand up, hesitating before he delicately set his hand against Jack’s cheek. Jack took a deep breath, amazed at how delicately Gabriel treated him when just moments ago, they’d been shooting at each other. “The one where we promised not to let any of that political shit come between us. The one where we promised that we would stick together no matter what.”

“Because we loved each other,” Jack finished breathlessly.

Gabe nodded. “Because we loved each other.”

“Arguably, we still do?” Jack tried to keep the hope out of his voice, but the strain on Gabriel’s face betrayed that he’d failed.

This was too much. Jack tried to put some distance between them, but Gabriel’s hand slid around to the back of his neck and held him tight. His red eyes were insistent, serious, and kept Jack pinned in place.

“Arguably,” Gabriel confirmed wryly. “You’re still a pain in my ass, Jackie.”

“Like you’re really any better. You wanna ask how my shoulder feels right about now?”

“You shot at me first; I thought we were fighting!”

“I was trying to _stop_ you. I wanted to _talk_.”

Gabriel huffed gruffly. With his free hand, he fumbled around Jack’s person until he finds what he’s looking for. He tosses the biotic field onto the floor, and Jack breathes a sigh at the pleasant feeling washing over him.

The two of them stared at each other, the field’s glowing yellow light dancing between them until it faded away. Jack wondered what happened next; where did they go now? Could they go back to fighting the way they had been? Jack wasn’t sure if he could bear it now, not with the way Gabriel kept looking at him.

“ **I don’t think it was supposed to turn out like this** ,” said Jack, expecting Gabe to come back with a sarcastic remark.

“No,” he agreed, his thumb drawing circles on the soft flesh beneath Jack’s ear. “It wasn’t.”

“What do we do now?”

Gabriel was quiet for a long moment, as though debating with himself. His brow furrowed, and how mouth twitched a bit. Jack knew that expression, too. That was Gabe’s “I’ve-Made-A-Decision-And-I’m-Not-Sure-If-You’re-Gonna-Like-It” look. Jack raised a curious eyebrow, but Gabe only smiled.

“What do you say we make a new occasion to celebrate?”

Jack rolled his eyes, a thrill running through him. “What do you have in mind?”

“We finish what we started. Together this time.” Gabe gave him a doubtful look, his lips pressed into a teasing line. “Think you’ll be up for it, old man?”

Jack laughed once. Then again. A smile broke out on his face, and he reached up to cup Gabriel’s cold cheeks in his hands, already pulling him down to seal the deal the best way he knew how.

“I think I can handle it.”


	16. Genyatta: Please make it stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Write genyatta. 17."
> 
> 17\. "Please, make it stop.

Zenyatta floated through the monastery quietly, aimlessly. The moon was full and bright in the sky, outshining the nearby constellations. They were high in the mountains, though, so he could still spot a few twinkling shapes when he stopped by one of the open windows.

He liked this time of night. The world was quiet, peaceful, and he could reflect on al that he had witnessed and felt. There was always much debate on omnics and how much they could _feel_. If their emotions were real or just a fabrication of what they _thought_ they were supposed to be experiencing.

Zenyatta himself was not sure at times. Mondatta swore that omnics had souls, and Zenyatta liked to think that he was correct. With no concrete evidence, no definitive answer… how could he say for certain that his emotions were real?

They certainly _felt_ real. When he saw a smiling child, his heart filled with joy. When he saw destruction, he felt the agony of sadness, of helplessness, of frustration that he could not have helped.

And when he saw Genji, he felt… something almost indescribable. A strange sensation that washed over him, akin to a vibration coiling within him. It was yearning. It was wonderful. It was _painful_. And it felt terribly, _frighteningly_ human.

Zenyatta did not know what this emotion might be, and it bothered him enough to fill his nights with restless thinking. Sometimes he found himself pacing in front of Genji’s room, wondering if he should go inside and worrying that Genji might realize that he was feeling whatever this feeling was.

Of one thing Zenyatta was certain: Genji could not know about these emotions. It occurred to him that Genji might actually know what he was experiencing, but Zenyatta did not want to plague his student with his own problems. He was teaching Genji inner peace and reflection; this was about _him_ , not Zenyatta. Genji needed healing.

Zenyatta did not know what he needed, only that he should be there for Genji.

A startling cry broke him out of his reverie, and he realized he’d moved away from the window to instead stand in front of Genji’s room. He heard noises from inside, quiet mutterings and involuntary shouts.

A nightmare, probably. Genji was prone to having nightmares about his brother and his time in Blackwatch. Usually, Zenyatta would go in and wake him, ask him if he would like to talk about what he had dreamt. Or, if Zenyatta was not nearby and Genji woke on his own, he would seek Zenyatta out for company or meditation.

Tonight was different. Tonight, Zenyatta hesitated. Countless thoughts bounced around his head, confusing him. Should he go in? Would Genji feel like Zenyatta was invading his privacy if he kept walking in uninvited to wake him from his dreams?

A particularly loud shout had Zenyatta moving instinctively. He entered the room, immediately going to Genji’s side. Genji had removed his visor before going to bed, and Zenyatta could see sweat beading on his forehead. The blanket was tangled about his legs, leaving both of his feet out in the open to kick and jerk freely.

“Genji.” Zenyatta murmured quietly, not wanting to startle his student. When Genji only whine and rolled about more, Zenyatta said his name louder. Genji gasped, eyes flying open as he sat straight up. He looked around, as if assessing his location, before his gaze settled on Zenyatta. The sight of the omnic seemed to bring him some peace of mind for he heaved a sigh and let his shoulders slump naturally.

“Master. I am sorry. Did I disturb your meditating?” Genji asked, failing to keep the tremble out of his tone.

“I was not meditating,” Zenyatta answered. His thoughts had been far too tumultuous for meditation. He watched the heavy way Genji breathed and longed to reach out and—and what? Touch him? Comfort him? Would the touch of an omnic truly be comforting?

His presence, perhaps. He and Genji had spent enough time together for Zenyatta’s company to bring Genji some solace. But Genji was still partly human, used to the touch of real flesh and real warmth and—and Zenyatta was _real_ , but was he real _enough_?

“Would you like to discuss your nightmare?” he asked instead of reaching out.

Genji shook his head. Then he nodded. “It was… very much what I always dream of, master. My-my brother. And the—and the _pain_. It still feels so real, master!”

A low panic began to rise within the omnic. Genji was edging close to hysterics, and Zenyatta _needed_ to calm him down before that happened. The last time he let Genji fall too far into his thoughts of the past still haunted Zenyatta’s thoughts daily.

But he didn’t know what to do! This would be where he should offer physical affection. A hug. A shoulder to cry on. Something. But would Genji want that? Would such attention actually help him, or would it make Genji’s thoughts worse? What if Genji simply remembered the days when he had been all human and grew even more upset?

“Master… **please, make it stop** ,” Genji pleaded, brown eyes glistening with unshed tears as he gazed up at Zenyatta.

But Zenyatta was at a loss. “How can I help?”

“Well….” Genji fidgeted shyly for a moment before he took a deep, resolute breath. “You could… hug me?”

“Hug you…?” Zenyatta repeated, amazed. To have these thoughts on his own was one thing; for _Genji_ to think about it as well was—well, that was—

“You do not have to, master. I am sorry for making such a strange request. Forget it,” Genji began, already backpedaling at Zenyatta’s lack of a response. “I should not have asked. You are probably not comfortable—”

Zenyatta silenced Genji by moving forward, arms outstretched. He gave Genji enough time to rescind the request and squirm away, but Genji did neither of those things. He simply leaned into Zenyatta, and when the omnic wrapped his arms around him, he sagged against Zenyatta’s chest.

Hugging Genji was easily the most electrifying experience of Zenyatta’s life. He could feel every twitch of Genji’s body, every motion. The way Genji’s breath began to slow and even out. How the trembles that kept shaking his shoulders gradually ceased. And when Genji reached up to wrap a hand around Zenyatta’s arm, Zenyatta _felt_ it. He felt it the way he always wondered if omnics could feel.

He felt it within his _soul_. And he never wanted it to end.

“Thank you, master,” Genji murmured, sounding drowsy once more. “I have not been held like this since—a very long time.”

Zenyatta wondered about that. Had there been someone in Overwatch who comforted him like this? Or had it been so long ago that Genji could not even put a estimate on how much time had passed? If allowed, Zenyatta would do this often, as often as needed—and, perhaps, even if _not_ needed.

There was something remarkably calming about hugging Genji. Tranquil. Akin, almost, to meditating. If meditating could be done by two people simultaneously, Zenyatta imagined it would feel like this.

“Anytime, my student. Do not hesitate to ask,” said Zenyatta quietly, too afraid to disturb the peace enveloping the two of them.

“Would you stay with me tonight?” Genji requested, somewhat nervous. “Just, uh… in case the nightmares return?”

This sounded like an excuse, but Zenyatta was not about to pass up the opportunity. He nodded, hoping he did not appear too eager, but the smile on Genji’s face dispelled this thought. He released Genji, gliding back a bit to allow Genji to resituate himself in the bed.

Genji did not move for a moment, his expression calculating. Zenyatta wondered he might be thinking about and decided it best not to ask. Such a look of determination and debate must be serious; perhaps about his nightmares? When Genji was ready to share with him, he would, and Zenyatta should resist the urge to pry so much—

“Floating all night must be exhausting,” said Genji suddenly, with an air of faux nonchalance that sounded equally ridiculous and endearing. “I would feel guilty if I made you hover there while I sleep so comfortably.”

“It is no bother,” Zenyatta reassure, mildly confused. This was something he had done often, and Genji had never brought attention to it before. Had he changed his mind? Did he want Zenyatta to leave after all?  
Genji looked frustrated for a moment. “Your comfort is _very_ important to me, master. I could not _live_ with myself if I forced you to put yourself at such… such _risk_.”

Zenyatta tilted his head to the side, curious about what Genji was getting at. After all, Zenyatta floated all the time, and Genji never seemed so concerned about it before. “Then what would you suggest, my student?”

“Well….” Genji, the rosy hue coloring his cheeks evident in the moonlight, shifted a bit on the bed. “There should be enough room here. For both of us. On the bed. If we… if we did not mind getting a, uh… a little close.”

All at once, Zenyatta understood, and he couldn’t keep a jolly laugh from leaving him. His fears, it seemed, had been unnecessary. He glided close to the bed once more, aware of Genji’s watchful, worried expression, and inclined his head.

“Would you like it if I held you as you sleep?”

Genji’s wonderful smile was answer enough. He scooted over until he was pressed against the wall, and Zenyatta arranged himself comfortably beside him. Then he beckoned the ninja closer, encouraging him until he could wrap his arms around Genji and tuck him close.

“Is this okay?” Zenyatta asked, surprised with how stiff Genji’s posture was.

“Yes! Yes, I am just….”

“I understand.” Zenyatta was nervous as well, almost distractingly so. But holding Genji felt nice, simple. And Genji fit against him _so well_ —and when Genji began to relax, the tension leaving him in a contented sigh, Zenyatta found he very much liked the weight of Genji against him.

Zenyatta did not need rest to function, but that night, he chose to sleep as his pupil did. And if he woke up in the morning, well rested and wrapped soundly around Genji, he did not wonder if the emotions he felt were real. The only evidence Zenyatta would ever need was tangled up with him, half-cybernetic body clumsy and heavy from restful sleep.

And he was smiling.


	17. McHanzo (Part Two): Please don't leave me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: 38 for a Mchanzo sequel? Love ur work ❤
> 
> 38\. "Please don't leave me."
> 
> Sequel to chapter 8's "If I told you everything, would you still look at me the same?"

The arrow soared through the air, striking the target square in the middle. Several more followed it, just off center but still impressive to an outsider. To Hanzo, the marks were disgraceful.

Irritably, he let his bow fall to his side and huffed. As of late, he had not been shooting well. Not since he joined his brother with the renewed Overwatch. He had been accepted well enough, though the older members did not trust him and the younger members seemed to fear him. Genji encouraged him to mingle and open up.

Hanzo did not mingle and open up well, especially when one of his old flings lingered nearby.

And Jesse McCree had been anything but a _fling_. Hanzo had felt genuine emotions for the ridiculous man in the cowboy attire, and that had been why Hanzo left him. Without a name, without a way to trace him. It had been for the best. Affections would die with time, and Hanzo had assumed that if he ever _did_ encounter McCree again, he would not feel anything for him.

Hanzo had been _wrong_. If anything, the way he felt about McCree had only amplified over the two years, grown into something uncontrollable and painful.

Because when they shook hands, they did so as strangers. Hanzo did not mention that he knew McCree from the past, and neither did the cowboy. Aside from a few meaningful looks, a longer than necessary handshake, McCree treated him like a stranger.

Or, Hanzo assumed he would, if Hanzo gave McCree any opportunity to see him. He was not _avoiding_ the cowboy, per say. Shimadas would never stoop low enough to admit such a thing. He was simply going out of his way to make sure that McCree did not feel awkward or uncomfortable by his presence. Thus far, he hadn’t seen McCree once, aside from the day Genji introduced them.

If he chose to be honest with himself, Hanzo wasn’t sure who he was being crueler to—Jesse or himself. Just that handshake had been enough to remind Hanzo of countless nights spent wrapped up in McCree, the way his kisses felt, how those long and lasting looks always made Hanzo tremble. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed McCree until the man himself was standing before him, wearing that stupid cowboy hat and crooked smile that Hanzo longed to kiss and bite and open up to once more.

The bandana he had stolen remained in his pocket, folded neatly but otherwise untouched. It no longer smelled of the cowboy, but it served its purpose well enough: to remind Hanzo of what he could never have again.

Hanzo nocked another arrow, frustrated. He took aim at the center again, intending to split the first arrow. He had done this many times before, having learned how simply to prove to Genji that it could be done.

He released the shot, already frowning. With good reason, too. The arrow hit the target _beside_ the first arrow, scarcely a breadth away from success. With a huff, he lowered his bow again, more than a little irritated now. He didn’t _understand_. Never before had Hanzo experienced such difficulty when it came to hitting his target.

If he had to blame _something_ , he figured it had something to do with—

“Pretty handy with that bow.”

Startled, Hanzo turned toward the door, his grasp on the bow tight and shaking. He hadn’t even _heard_ the door open, let alone the cowboy who had entered. McCree leaned casually against the wall, still wearing his usual getup but without the armor. His thumbs were hooked in his belt loops, his hip cocked _just so_ , and Hanzo forced himself to turn away before he thought about what it had been like to touch and kiss those hips.

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on ya,” said Jesse, his tone a little odd. As if uncertain how to speak to Hanzo now that they were alone together for the first time in two years. Hanzo had gone to great lengths to avoid a meeting like this, but it seemed McCree would not allow him the chance to hide away.

“I was merely focused. You startled me,” said Hanzo, still eyeing the targets. The arrows stuck out almost mockingly, and Hanzo considered walking over to rip them away, if for no reason than to put some space between him and the cowboy.

“Yeah? Didn’t realize you Shimadas _could_ be snuck up on.”

Hanzo flinched, the reminder clear and painful that McCree _knew_ now. Knew who he was, what he had done. Especially if he had worked as closely with Genji as Hanzo had been led to believe. Hanzo wouldn’t be surprised if Jesse hated him at some point.

The only reason he didn’t hate him _now_ was because of their past. A past the cowboy most certainly regretted now.

“Was there something you wanted?” Hanzo asked testily.

McCree shuffled a bit, suddenly uncomfortable. He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous tick that Hanzo remembered well, and tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Been meanin’ to talk to ya, but I get the feelin’ you’ve been avoidin’ me.”

“It is a big base,” Hanzo tried to lie. He felt a bit unhinged that McCree had seen through him so easily.

Jesse grimaced. “It ain’t that big, darlin’—er, Hanzo.”

Hanzo winced again, stepping back. He had often wondered what his name would sound like on Jesse tongue instead of _darlin’_ or _sugar_ or any of those other nicknames that he used in place of his name. But it was nothing as he had imagined. Jesse merely sounded… awkward. Uncomfortable. As if Hanzo’s name, his _identity_ , was as much of a burden as Hanzo had expected.

“And if you were not wrong?” Hanzo walked over to the target, needing to be busy. He began to pluck out his arrows one by one as he spoke. “Suppose that I have been avoiding you. What would you say then?”

McCree was quiet. Hanzo felt that silence. It stifled him, _suffocated him_ , and he would have given anything for McCree to say something. Anything. Even if Hanzo did not want to hear it, at least it would end this deafening silence!

Hanzo’s hands were shaking. He could feel the arrows bouncing around in his grip, and he longed to put them away. He would have to turn, though. See the look on McCree’s face, and he—he—

“Hanzo.” McCree was closer now, right behind Hanzo. He took the arrows from the archer’s hand and tossed them carelessly onto the floor at their feet. Hanzo should’ve been annoyed. Angry. But all he could think about was how he could feel McCree’s warmth so near to him. How he once knew that warmth so intimately.

It had been two years. _Two years_ since he had felt the touch of another. Since he had felt _McCree_. He _ached_ for the cowboy, longed to lean into him and just feel secure again.

Hanzo’s hands weren’t all that shook.

“Hanzo. Look at me.”

Hanzo took a deep breath, steeling himself for the inevitable. He turned to look at McCree and accept what he expected to be certain rejection. Jesse’s expression was open, though. Open and honest with Hanzo, just how he’d always been.

“You gotta tell me, darlin’. Do you want me to leave ya alone?” His drawl was open, honest. Raw with emotion that Hanzo didn’t believe the cowboy could still feel for him.

Hanzo opened his mouth, but no words left him. How could he be so selfish as to tell McCree to stay? Not after the things that he had done. Not when Jesse—when Jesse _knew_ ….

McCree shifted, taking Hanzo’s silence to mean the affirmative. He shoved his hands in his pockets and tilted his head, using his cowboy hat to shield his eyes. “I see. I’ll just be goin’, then.”

The moment McCree turned, Hanzo felt his breath catch. This was it. This was _it_. If he let McCree walk away now, he would lose the cowboy forever. The idea sounded foolish even to him, but—but he knew it was _true_. It had to be true!

But Hanzo needed to let him go. McCree deserved to move on, find happiness with somebody _better_. Somebody without such blood on his hands.

McCree paused, curiously peering over his shoulder at Hanzo. “Darlin’? You all right there?”

Hanzo’s brow furrowed, confused. McCree smiled a little, a half-curve of the lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Cause you’re holdin’ on pretty tight.”

“What?” Hanzo looked, and sure enough, his fingers were grasping a fistful of McCree’s serape. His face burned, embarrassed to be betrayed by _instinct_. Swallowing, he tried to let go, but his hand would simply not release. A little panicked, he looked up at McCree’s face, intending to request help, but what came out was, ” **Please do not leave me**.”

McCree was silent for a long moment in which Hanzo began to jump to an array of conclusions. He was already too late. He’d misread this situation. Any scenario his anxious mind could latch onto and spin to suit Hanzo’s own views.

But then McCree turned back around, his flesh hand coming up to take Hanzo’s, replacing the serape in his grasp. Hanzo all but staggered at the feel of Jesse’s hand, real and warm as it squeezed his fingers.

“If I’m recallin’ right, _you_ left _me_ ,” said McCree. He was not accusing, but he still sounded wary, as if Hanzo was about to shove him away again. Steal off into the night without word. Without even goodbye.

All at once, Hanzo realized something he had never considered: when he left McCree with nothing, no trinket or even a way to find him, no trace of him whatsoever—he had not stopped to consider what this would do to the cowboy that Hanzo had been trying to spare. He had been selfish in leaving the way he had. McCree deserved _better_.

But _better_ did not seem to be what McCree _wanted_. So Hanzo let himself sway forward, close enough for his body to graze Jesse’s, and waited to see if the cowboy would push him away. When he did not, that gave Hanzo the courage to carry on.

“Forgive me,” he requested, his voice sounding too loud to his ears. “I… feared what you would think of me if you found out about Genji. About what I did….”

“Hanzo, I told ya then that it wouldn’t matter. It _still_ don’t matter.” McCree’s smile grew a little now. He tugged Hanzo closer, his metal hand coming up to tentatively touch Hanzo’s cheek. “I ain’t gonna say I’m happy about it, bein’ a friend o’ Genji’s an’ all, but I’ve always hoped I’d see ya again. Get the chance to change your mind.”

Hanzo hummed a little, reaching up to let his fingertips slide through McCree’s beard. His other hand still gripped Jesse’s, afraid that if he let go, the cowboy would leave him alone again. “Masochist.”

“Ya might be right,” McCree echoed with a shrug, grinning now. He and Hanzo were close now, unbearably close, and Hanzo tasted the tobacco on McCree’s breath when he added, “Don’t change a thing, though.”

“You… you cannot be certain.”

McCree raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“No,” said Hanzo definitively. “It has been two years! You cannot be certain that I am still what you want.”

McCree huffed, mildly irritated but still keeping the distance between them minimal. He tilted his head slightly, just enough for his nose to bump Hanzo’s. “You remember our last night together?”

Hanzo swallowed around the lump in his throat. “How could I forget?”

“I think about that night all the time. About a question ya asked me.”

Hanzo knew the question. Remembered how he had felt when he asked it, how confused McCree had looked. How he had let that question push him away from the one good thing in his life out of _fear_.

_If I told you everything, would you still look at me the same?_

“Look in my eyes, Hanzo, and tell me if you’ve got your answer yet?’

McCree’s hand was steady on Hanzo’s cheek, the metal a little cold but incredibly grounding. Hanzo met his gaze unflinchingly, prepared for whatever he might see. Prepared for rejection or maybe— _maybe—_

What he found there had Hanzo surging forward, where McCree waited to catch him in a hard, desperate kiss. McCree still kissed him the same, as if trying to revive Hanzo with his affection alone, and Hanzo let himself be swept away in his insistence, in the truth he’d been trying to impart that night two years ago.

Finally, _finally_ , Hanzo let himself have faith. He let himself believe Jesse’s promises for what they were.

The _truth_.

 “So what’d ya do with that bandana you stole from me?”

“Bandana? I do not know a bandana. Is it like your dirty towel?”

“ _Serape_ , dammit, Hanzo. That was my favorite bandana.”

“… it was mine as well.”


	18. Reaper76: Tell me what you did/It is so difficult to love you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "If your still accepting the prompts 23 and 39 for Reaper76"
> 
> 23\. “Tell me what you did. Please, I can help if you just tell me.”
> 
> 39\. “It is so difficult to love you, but it is so worth it.”

Jack woke to the feel of strong arms and thighs wrapping around him. He sighed contentedly, the slide of skin on skin sending a pleasant shiver down his spine. Completely pinned by the welcoming weight of heavy limbs, all he could do was settle closer, his nose tucked right under his partner’s chin.

For all intents and purposes, it was Jack’s day off. He had a meeting to attend around ten, but the rest of the day could be spent as he pleased. It had been so long since his last day off, he’d almost forgotten what it was like to have time to himself. His plans were to go to the meeting, come back to his room, and spend the rest of the day tangled up in bedsheets and his boyfriend.

And Jack—well, he _needed_ this. Usually, his job as Strike Commander didn’t bother him. He liked fighting to keep the peace they’d worked so hard to get, but it could all become a little… _much_ after some time. He needed to recharge, just relax and let the ease of laziness weigh him down until the job didn’t overwhelm him anymore.

And if he and Gabriel managed to have the same day off, then Jack got to recharge in more ways than one.

Jack pressed a long, sweet kiss to Gabriel’s throat, still sated and heavy with sleep. He knew he should see how much time he had until he needed to leave the comfort of their bed, but he didn’t think he’d be able to move at all, with the way Gabe pinned him. Gabriel was already built like a tank, but asleep? He might as well be all dead weight.

Not that Jack minded much. He liked the way Gabriel felt, all heavy limbs and soft noises. Jack settle back in, ready to sleep until his alarm sounded.

“Jack,” Gabe murmured quietly, almost tentatively. Jack stiffened at the sound; Gabe sounded afraid in a way that Jack hadn’t heard in a long time. He tried to sit up, get a good look at his face, but Gabriel held him down as easily as if Jack were a child. “Jack, I did something bad.”

“What is it?” When Gabe said nothing, Jack kissed his neck again, trying to ease him. “ **Tell me what you did**.”

“You’re not gonna be happy about it,” Gabriel muttered, lifting his chin a bit to give Jack more space. Smiling a little, Jack took the bait, moving his mouth along the dark expanse of Gabriel’s throat until Gabe shivered.

“ **Please, I can help if you just tell me** ,” Jack continued to reason, finally able to lean his head back and see Gabe’s face. He saw guilt but nothing that might cause too much worry. He leaned up to kiss Gabe’s mouth, slide his tongue along Gabe’s lip until he opened up. Jack leaned against him for leverage, chasing the stale taste of sleep on his tongue and pulling back when Gabriel pushed into him. “Please, Gabe. Tell me what you did.”

Gabe huffed, his head flopping back to land on the pillow. “Remember the meeting today? The only thing you have to do on your day off?”

“Yes?” Jack confirmed slowly, already having a bad feeling about this.

“Well, your alarm went off a few hours ago,” Gabe mumbled, quiet with shame.

Jack sat up a bit, eyes widening slowly. “What?”

“Yeah.” Gabe reached a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. “You didn’t wake up, so I just turned it off.”

“Gabriel! A few hours ago?!” Jack began to disentangle himself from the trap of blanket and boyfriend. He reached over for his phone to confirm that yes, his alarm had gone off roughly three hours ago, and yes, Gabriel had just _turned it off_. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

Gabriel didn’t give him an answer, just stared up at their ceiling like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. With a groan of frustration, Jack stumbled out of the bed and began looking for his clothes. Those seemed to be missing, though, so he turned an accusatory stare onto Gabriel again.

“Where’s my uniform?”

“You really think I was worried about where I was throwing your uniform? I had other things on my mind last night.” Gabriel’s dark eyes bore into his, a challenging eyebrow raised. As if asking, _Why weren’t_ you _paying attention? It’s your damn uniform, Jackie_.

“I told you I needed it for this morning.”

Scoffing, Gabe glared back up at the ceiling. “It’s your damn day off! You deserve a break every now and then, too. Why are they making you go to some dumb as fuck meeting, anyway? They’ll probably just tell you all of the same shit they did at the last meeting.”

“I’m Strike Commander, Gabriel!” Jack began to deflate some. He couldn’t really blame Gabriel when they’d hardly had any time together lately. With a sigh, he crossed back over to the bed and sat down, reaching over to take Gabe’s hand. “I don’t get the same luxuries that everyone else does. You already know that.”

Gabe pulled his hand away. “Your uniform’s in the bathroom. Better go make an appearance before you get in trouble, pretty boy.”

“Keep calling a man something like that, and he could get an ego.”

“You already have an ego. No stopping it now.” Gabe shrugged a little, but Jack saw his sad, good-natured smile and knew he wasn’t really mad. He lifted a hand and waved it at Jack, trying to shoo him away. “Go on, get out of here. Go make the world a better place. I’ll still be here when you get back.”

The resignation in Gabriel’s voice clenched around Jack’s heart. He checked his phone again. Two hours late for the meeting. He’d already have to hear hell about being late… He smiled a little, tossing his phone back down onto the beside table. Gabriel didn’t look at him, pretending to be less bothered by this whole thing than he actually was.

When Jack fell back onto the bed, Gabriel _did_ look. He sat up, an eyebrow raised at Jack, who shrugged. He tried not to grin at Gabe’s dumbfounded stare but failed completely.

“I figure if I’m already late, what’s the point in going?” Jack scooted over until he could wrap himself around Gabe again, fingertips digging into hard muscle as he dragged Gabriel’s arms around him again. “Besides, it’s my day off.”

Gabriel laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. He rolled on top of Jack, caging him between strong arms and thighs, and Jack couldn’t think of a place he’d rather be. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”

“Usually, you’re a pain in _mine_.” Jack wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Gabe shook his head, sighing in disappointment and disbelief. “ **It is _so difficult_ to love you**.”

Jack grinned and slid his hand around the back of Gabriel’s neck, urging him down for a kiss. “Yeah? There better be a _but_ after that, Reyes.”

Gabriel kissed him, softly, tenderly, the way men of blood and war didn’t kiss. He kissed him slowly, as if they had all the time in the world and not just this day. He kissed him so senseless that Jack couldn’t even think to be embarrassed when Gabe encouraged a moan from his throat. All he could think was how he wanted _more_. _Everything_ Gabriel had to offer him, and he’d give everything back in return.

He really didn’t need to hear it when Gabe pulled back to give him the _but_ he’d demanded. Already, Jack was pulling him back in for another kiss, but he still got to taste those words as they left Gabriel’s tongue in an ardent whisper.

“ **But it is _so_ worth it**.”

Six words never tasted sweeter. 


	19. Genyatta: It's too late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: idk if your still doing this but genyatta 34? your really good at writing them!! i love it!
> 
> 34\. "It's too late."

“Have you ever felt like you shouldn’t fall in love with somebody but you do anyway?”

Hanzo turned to raise an eyebrow at Genji, his eyes narrowed in mild surprise and suspicion. Genji pretended to face forward and return to his meditating; he was still wearing his faceplate, so Hanzo wouldn’t know he hadn’t closed his eyes yet.

When his brother had agreed to allow Genji to sit with him while he polished his bow, it was with the promise that Genji would not bother him with frivolous matters. That usually applied to _all_ questions, according to Hanzo, but Genji found that he could get his older sibling to open up under the right circumstances.

Hanzo scoffed quietly and returned to his bow. “If you are trying to convince me to admit my affections for McCree again, then you will be sorely disappointed today as well.”

“Oh, I do not need you to admit that. I already know how you feel about McCree,” teased Genji, tilted his head minutely just to see red rising to life in Hanzo’s cheeks. He grinned a little at the sight of Hanzo straightening uncomfortably and laughed when he cleared his throat. “I am only teasing. Not everything is about you, Hanzo.”

“I know that,” muttered Hanzo, irritable.

“Your ego has only inflated more over the years.”

“Silence. Who is it you are in love with?”

Genji stiffened. He glanced at Hanzo, surprised to find him wearing a smug smile. Laughing again, Genji relaxed his position and stretched his arms above his head. He didn’t get sore as much as he used to, but he worried he might make Hanzo uncomfortable by seeming less human.

Though roughly eight months had passed since Hanzo joined him with the revived Overwatch, Genji still wasn’t sure where exactly they stood. Hanzo still blamed himself for what Genji had become, and Genji could not seem to get him to understand that he had made peace with who he was now. It had not been an easy road, but he hadn’t been alone.

His… master had been with him.

“Nobody. I was asking for a friend.”

Hanzo _hmphed_ and rolled his eyes. “The oldest excuse!” He paused, waiting for Genji to say more. When he didn’t, Hanzo added, “What would you know of love, in any case? You are nothing but a child.”

“I’m thirty-five.”

“A _child_.”

“Then what does that make you, brother?” Genji was glad he could hide his sly smile behind his faceplate. “You are lucky McCree likes older men.”

“He is not that much younger—in any case, it does not matter! You are completely missing the point.” Hanzo stood up, frustrated, and Genji had a flashback to their childhood years when he would pester his brother until Hanzo would stand up, make some grand parting speech, and then storm off to continue the brooding, unapproachable façade. Genji leaned forward expectantly.

Hanzo raised his chin in the typical Shimada way and looked down at Genji as if incredibly insulted. “Love is not a choice, Genji. It does not adhere to shoulds or should nots. The sooner you learn this, the sooner you will stop being a child with fanciful views of love.”

 **It's too late**.

Genji absorbed all of this quietly. Yep. Typical Hanzo, making some great, superior declaration. The familiarity was enough to bring a smile to Genji’s face, his troubles momentarily forgotten as he stood up. He walked over to Hanzo, placed a hand on his shoulder, and spoke with the same tone of stern seriousness.

“Adults admit when they have a cowboy kink.”

“I cannot _stand_ you.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Have you ever fallen in love with someone you shouldn’t?”

McCree turned his head a little, eyeing Genji through a thin trail of cigar smoke. He’d cornered the cowboy outside, leaning against a wall and pretending not to watch Hanzo as he worked out. By now, McCree probably knew Hanzo’s routine as well as _Hanzo_ did, but Genji wasn’t about to rub that in. He and McCree were friends, but that was a relationship forged originally out of necessity, out of shaky trust and blood and death in the cover of night. Blackwatch had been unforgiving to the both of them, but now Genji knew he could trust Jesse McCree with his life.

And with his brother.

But that did not mean he intended to push things as much as he did with Hanzo. He knew Hanzo’s boundaries well, even after years of separation, and McCree was a changed man. Quieter, almost, with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes and a silence that felt nearly predatory.

“Depends on what you mean by _shouldn’t_ ,” McCree answered slowly, his drawl low and quiet to keep from alerting Hanzo. “You ain’t talkin’ about nothin’ creepy, right?”

Genji rolled his eyes, which McCree couldn’t see but definitely knew about, if his half-grin said anything about it. “I mean that falling in love with this person could change everything. Or maybe nothing! But you just… you cannot say for certain, so you try not to fall in love.”

“And fall anyway,” Jesse finished, nodding a bit. He pulled out his cigar and tossed it to the ground to be crushed beneath his boot. “Who is it?”

Several sensations flashed through Genji’s head: beautiful security, warm harmony, freedom. Acceptance. He could almost hear spinning orbs, as if beckoned to his memory by yearning alone. Genji said none of this to McCree.

Genji said, “It does not matter who. All that matters is the _inconvenience_ , Jesse. I cannot feel this— _should not_ feel this!” Genji reached out a hand to grip McCree’s flesh arm and physically implore him to help, but he thought better of it and let his arm fall limp to his side. “I need to know how to make it stop.”

“What, you think I know how?” McCree scoffed, his gaze flickering back out to where Hanzo had paused to drink. “Genji, the best I can tell you to do is just let whoever it is know what your feelin’. Holdin’ onto this ain’t good for you. Love makes a person damn stupid, so unless you wanna make more a fool o’ yourself than you usually do, I suggest comin’ clean.”

Genji pouted a little. “I don’t think _I’m_ the only one making a fool of myself here.”

“Can’t say I know what you’re gettin’ at.”

“You’re watching him _train_ , McCree.”

“I like smokin’ here!” Grumbling about pushy ninjas, Jesse stalked off. In Hanzo’s general direction. Genji smiled and hoped that his brother didn’t fuck this up. They would be good for each other. Make each other happy, the same way Genji was always happy with—

Genji didn’t stay to watch. He turned around and crept soundlessly back into the base. He still didn’t have an answer about what he should do. He couldn’t let this love ruin something he cherished so much.

He could just… stop, right? Stopping was a possible course of action. That was it! He would just _stop_ the love that he hadn’t been able to keep from happening in the first place.

 **It’s too late**.

Right. Who did Genji think he was trying to kid?

“Is there a problem, my student?”

Genji had been so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t realize he was about to crash right into Zenyatta. The omnic had been hovering just outside the door to Genji’s room, his fist poised to knock. Genji backpedaled a bit to put some distance between them, thankful that the red tint on his cheeks wasn’t visible.

“Oh, no, master! I was just—what, uh… what are you doing here so late?” Genji hastily shut up before he could keep rambling and make a fool of himself. Or, as McCree would put it, make _more_ a fool of himself.

Zenyatta said nothing for a moment, his orbs whirring thoughtfully. Genji had the distinct impression that he was being assessed, and he shifted a bit uncomfortably. Zenyatta always had a way of divulging his deepest secrets, and this was a secret he did _not_ want known.

The movement must have been enough to startle the omnic out of his thoughts because he said, “I am leaving in the morning. There is a mission on Nepal that would benefit from my knowledge of the area.”

“Oh.” Genji tried to ignore the pang in his chest at the thought of his master being away on a mission without him. “How long will you be gone?”

“That is uncertain.” Zenyatta gave an inquiring tilt of his head that Genji might have mistaken for shy. “Would you join me in meditating one more time before I depart?”

Meditating with Zenyatta was easily on the top of Genji’s list of favorite things to do, just above _Annoy Hanzo_. Nothing ever brought him as much peace of mind, of _self_ , as clearing his mind of all distractions and just basking in the safety of his master’s company.

But meditating with Zenyatta was not a good idea. Not when he was feeling such turmoil, such… doubt. Surely Zenyatta would sense this and press him on the matter.

And if Zenyatta did, Genji wouldn’t be able to lie to him! Their… _friend_ ship was built on a monumental amount of trust, forged by unwavering honesty. In all the time he had known his master, Genji had not lied to him once, and he would _not_ be able to start lying now.

No. No, Genji couldn’t allow that to happen.

“… Forgive me, master, but I am very tired. I would fall asleep if I were to meditate now.” A white lie, then. Something small, innocent. To save himself and Zenyatta from future turmoil because Genji didn’t think he could bear it.

“Tired? But it is still early. Are you not feeling well?” Zenyatta drifted closer, reaching toward Genji’s face as if to search for a diagnosis.

And Genji instinctively stepped back. Just out of reach and enough to get his point across. Immediately, he realize where this was a mistake.

Over the years, Genji had learned much about Zenyatta, the most important of which was how to read Zenyatta’s moods. The orbs were his biggest clue, but Genji had also developed a way of just… _knowing_. He knew in the way that Zenyatta stiffened as much as an omnic _could_ , in the way his orbs ceased their spinning.

In the way Zenyatta quietly stared at him. His master was confused. Worried. _Hurt_. Genji had _hurt_ him.

Without another word, Genji fled to his room. He closed the door and leaned against it, willing his heart to calm down.  What had he just done? What if his master was upset with him now? He could only imagine what Zenyatta might be feeling after being turned away like that, and then Genji just had to go and—

McCree’s words rang out in his head, as loud and clear as when the cowboy had spoken them: _Love makes a person damn stupid_.

He’d tried so hard! So hard not to let this get to him and affect his relationship with Zenyatta, but it was—

**It’s too late.**

**Too late.**

**Toolatetoolatetoolatetoolatetoolate** —

Genji slid down until he landed on the floor, absently reaching up to unlatch his faceplate. He tossed it off to the side, hardly hearing it clatter against the pristine floor. Hanzo had been so impressed, so _proud_ when he saw Genji’s clean room.

Genji had understood. Hanzo still imagined a _child_ with green hair and a messy room and _fanciful views of love_.

But Genji wasn’t a child anymore. The hair he tugged now was black, not green. The floor he sat on was free of dust and clutter. And he knew the cruelty of love—of loving what he could not have, of everything he could ever want being within his grasp yet simultaneously so far out of his reach.

Genji couldn’t decide which pain he would rather endure: that of his brother’s blade or that of being in love with—

All of this was giving him a headache, so he curled up against the door, arms around his legs as he tried to plan a way he could make this up to Zenyatta. He would have all the time in the world to figure something out… with Zenyatta’s mission tomorrow… Genji’s eyes began to droop, but he shook himself out of his stupor and kept thinking.

How long would the omnic be gone? Would he dwell over Genji’s actions? Or perhaps he might forget, thinking Genji’s behavior insignificant. He wouldn’t be _mad_ at Genji because that just wasn’t Zenyatta, but… but he could be upset with him… right…?

At some point, Genji must have worried himself to sleep because he woke up stiff and disoriented. Grunting, he stumbled to his feet and all but fell into his bed. If he decided to sulk in his room all day, maybe Hanzo would come see him, and then Genji could complain about his problems some. Hanzo, though incredibly judgmental, was a surprisingly good listener.

Yeah. Hanzo might stop by, and then he could vent a little. Genji smiled a bit at the thought.

But this was only if he stayed in bed all day. And what if Hanzo _didn’t_ come see him? Genji frowned a bit. Or what if Hanzo took _too long_ to come see him? Genji was bound to get hungry, and nothing would cheer him up like some of Reinhardt’s pancakes.

Unless Reinhardt went on the mission with Zenyatta. Genji probably should have learned some more details about that mission.

Well. He could always go out, make some tea, and sigh a lot to _make_ Hanzo see his current pathetic state. Yes! That had to work.

With a resolute nod, Genji got back out of bed and stretched, his remaining human muscles twinging from the uncomfortable position. He carried himself to the door in an undignified slouch and opened the door—

Only to nearly run into Zenyatta. Again.

“Master!” Genji yelped, stepping back a few paces and into his room once more. “Were you out there all night?”

“I—” Zenyatta’s orbs twitched uncomfortably, and he looked away. “I was waiting for you to come out. Your strange behavior from last night concerned me.”

“What about your mission? I thought you were supposed to leave this morning!”

“I informed Winston that I thought it best to remain on the base for now. I uploaded a map of Nepal to Athena’s databases. That should be sufficient enough for the away team.” Zenyatta gave Genji a considering look before he waved an orb of harmony over to him. The healing light washed over him, restoring any discomfort from his body.

“Your posture is rigid. Did you not sleep well?”

Genji swallowed, suddenly aware that Zenyatta could see every emotion written on his face. He thought about grabbing his faceplate, but then Zenyatta might think that he was hiding something. Which he was, but Zenyatta didn’t need to know that.

“Uh—no. I fell asleep on the floor.”

Zenyatta laughed, though it sounded a bit forced. “Just like during mediation! You were so incorrigible when we first met.”

Genji smiled at the memory. “Yes… I was, wasn’t I?”

“… May I come in?”

“Oh! Oh, of course, master. Forgive me! You’ve been out there all night.” Genji stepped aside hastily to allow the omnic to join him. He grabbed his faceplate off the floor and set it on his bedside table, hoping Zenyatta hadn’t noticed the careless treatment. He didn’t know why it was such a big deal when Angela was more likely to get on his case, but he wanted Zenyatta to think he could take care of himself.

Now that Zenyatta was in his room, neither one of them really knew what to do. Genji, needing some movement in the static room, sat down on the bed, a little surprised when Zenyatta joined him. The omnic watched him carefully, as if worried that he might spook Genji.

“If there is something troubling you, I hope you are aware that you can seek guidance with me,” Zenyatta began, truthfully sounding the more trouble of the two. “I do not want you to ever think that you are alone in your problems. I am always here for you, as your master and as your friend.”

“Master, I….” Genji stared down at his lap, where he methodically clenched and unclenched his hands. One of Zenyatta’s appeared in his line of sight, hesitating for a moment before grasping one of Genji’s.

Somehow, Genji ended up with his arms wrapped around Zenyatta’s middle, his face pressing against the omnic’s cool abdomen. Zenyatta’s hand was on Genji’s head, sometimes moving to card through his hair. Genji closed his eyes, wishing those simple motions brought him more joy and less pain.

 ** _It’s too late_**.

“I care for you incredibly, Genji.”

 ** _It’s too late_** _. And it_ hurts _._

“And I would do anything in my power to keep you free from pain.”

Genji curled even tighter into Zenyatta’s lap, unable to speak. Unable to end it all, to either bring himself peace or agony.

**_It’s too late._ **

_I love you. And I shouldn’t._


	20. Reaper76: How did we get here/I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mechformers asked: I don't know if you're still doing the prompts, but if you are, could we please get 7 and 35 with Reaper and Soldier:76 
> 
> 7\. “How did we get here?”
> 
> 35\. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me.”

Gabriel Reyes woke up disoriented and with an enormous fucking headache. He felt stiff, too, and that wasn’t a feeling he was all that used to. Eyes closed, he quietly took stock, trying to assess if he was in any danger.

Something wiry was attached to Gabe’s arm, but other than that, everything appeared to be intact. There was a heavy weight on his other arm, but that didn’t seem threatening. Slowly, he peeked open one eye and took in his surroundings.

Off-white room. Off-white blanket covering his body. Off-white curtains filtering some (probably) off-white sunlight. Was this hell? Did he die and go to off-white hell? Not to mention the _smell_. Antiseptic. Too clean. Unnatural.

Shaking his head a little, Gabe looked to his left to see what heavy bullshit was hanging onto his arm and was surprised to see that it wasn’t bullshit at all, but a very passed out mass of muscle and blond hair. Jack Morrison had pulled a chair over to the bed and was leaning over, his head pillowed on his arms, which were pillowed on _Gabe’s_ arm.

“Fucking adorable,” Gabe murmured, definitely high on something because he couldn’t believe that just came out of his mouth. He tried to sit up a bit, but Jack had him pinned down completely. Not really how Gabe had imagined it.

“Hey,” he muttered, grunting when he began to lift the other arm, which he realized was connected to an IV. Gabe managed to drag his wrist across his lap and leave it there with just enough room to sink his fingers into Jack’s mess of hair. Recently showered, from the feel of it. “Morrison, wake up.”

Jack didn’t stir, though. If anything, he burrowed closer to Gabe and sighed, contentedly, like there wasn’t anywhere else he’d rather be.

Carding his fingers through Jack’s hair, Gabe couldn’t really blame him. Jack’s weight on his arm was reassuring, real, and he got to indulge in something that he’d only dared to dream—that maybe Jack would wat _more_. That maybe Gabriel wasn’t alone in thinking that there was something between them. Something new and amazing and rare and—

Yep, definitely high on _something_.

“Jack,” Gabe said, a little louder, the man’s name coupled with a slight shake of his head. “Come on, Jackie, time to get up.”

All at once, Jack shot up, his eyes wide and his breath heavy. Gabe used his newfound freedom to grab Jack’s hand and squeeze tightly, trying to ground the man in the real world and help shake away whatever he’d been dreaming about.

“Hey. You with me?”

Jack’s eyes shifted, focusing on Gabriel. He swallowed, body sagging, and managed a smile. “Hey. You’re awake.”

“I been out long?”

“Few days.”

“Where are we?”

“Hospital.”

Gabriel snorted. “Yeah, no shit. **How did we get here**? Where the fuck even _is_ here?”

Jack shrugged a little, looking guilty. “Not sure. The evac was fucking crazy. I just got you into a helicopter and told them to get us to the nearest hospital.”

“Evac…?” Gabe leaned his head back, trying to remember what the fuck had been happening before he fell unconscious.

It came back to him all at once: the omnics, the shooting, the noises—loud, _loud_ noises—and looking around for his team, for Jack, but where was Jack? Jack should’ve been there, and he wasn’t, and then—

Pain. The numb pain of death blossoming through his abdomen as he went down. Everything was slowing now, the gunshots far off, the screaming indistinct and muffled. He’d blinked his eyes, and everything shone bright, including Jack.

Jack, who was finally there, yelling at him, begging him not to die, not here, not before Jack could tell him how he—

Gabe cringed at the onslaught of memories, already feeling a headache coming on. “How’s the team?”

Jack shrugged again. “Not sure. I’ve been here since they let me see you. Only time I left was when the nurse said she was going to kick me out if I didn’t get a shower. Seemed to think I was going to contaminate you or something.”

“You didn’t think to check on anybody else while you waited for me to wake the fuck up?” Gabe tried to sit up, but Jack’s firm hand on his shoulder was warning enough to stay still.

“I’m sorry I was worried about your stupid ass!” Jack spat, gripping Gabriel’s shoulder as if to make sure he was actually real. Angry with himself, he stood up and began pacing. As he spoke, his voice rose until he was almost yelling. “I’m sorry I didn’t check on the rest of the team. I’m sorry we had to retreat like that. I’m sorry I—”

Jack cut himself off, his lips pursed. Gabe stared at him, transfixed, waiting for him to continue. Now wasn’t the time to pick a fight with Jack or call him out on disobeying orders. Not when he was so wound up still, as if the fight had never ended for him. Gabe wondered if the fight ever _did_ end for Jack Morrison, or if he just took the war with him wherever he went.

Jack took a deep breath and then looked up at him, his blue eyes startlingly bright and shimmering with emotion. “ **I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me**. I’m sorry I let you get hurt. I’m _sorry_.”

Gabe shivered, the tremble in Jack’s tone clenching around his heart and squeezing until he didn’t think he could breathe. All he knew was that he needed Jack close, had to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault—even if it _was_. It didn’t matter. He patted a spot on the bed and beckoned the soldier closer, but Jack didn’t budge.

“Come over here. Talk to me about where you were.”

Jack scoffed. “What’s there to tell? I did something stupid and reckless because I wanted to be a goddamn hero, and it almost got you killed.”

“Jackie,” Gabe warned, an eyebrow raised at the challenge. “Come here.”

Jack swallowed, head down again. He shifted, debating, before he returned to Gabriel’s bedside and deliberately sat in the chair. He was close enough for Gabe to reach out and grab his hand, and he came close to doing just that.

“Well?” Gabe prompted.

“Well what?” Jack mumbled and then sighed. “I wanted to go around and flank the enemy. Try to distract them, at least. It didn’t work.”

“It was a nice try?” Gabe tried to loosen the mood, but Jack leveled him with a dry look.

“I almost got you killed.”

“You’re really hung up on that, huh?” Gabe did reach out now and grasped Jack’s hand tightly in his own. Jack shifted, as if gravitating closer to Gabriel. “Listen. I can’t say I’m happy about what you did, but it’s _fine_ , all right? You’re alive. I’m alive. The team… might be dead, but that’s something we’ll address when we come to it. As soon as I can get out of this damn bed.”

Jack made a small noise, a scoff that sounded dangerously close to a laugh. He squeezed Gabriel’s hand, his brow furrowed. “I… told you something. While I was dragging you out of there. I told you something important.”

_Goddamn it, Reyes, you can’t die now! You can’t die, not until I tell you—_

Gabriel sucked in a deep breath, caught between two options. He could play this off, say he didn’t remember anything. Act like those three little words didn’t happen. Jack would probably be a little hurt by the off-handed but clear rejection, and that would be the end of it.

Or Gabe could tell him the truth. Tell him that he _did_ remember, that he wanted to hear Jack say it again, that he wanted the chance to say it _back_. Let Jack know how important he was to Gabe, some brilliant, shining sun that helped push Gabe onward. How winning the war against the omnics wasn’t worth shit unless Jack was at his side.

The truth would change everything. The truth would make them—make _him_ —vulnerable, and Gabe didn’t know if that was something they could afford in a war like this. He could always wait to tell him—but what if he missed his chance? What if Jack moved on?

But if it was to keep him safe—

Gabriel opened his mouth, fully prepared to tell Jack the lie—but then he was caught in Jack’s blue eyes, overcome by the hopeful shine there, and—

Fuck it.

“Telling me something important when I might die?” Gabe snorted, his mouth curving into a half-smirk while he rubbed soft circles against Jack’s wrist. “That’s the coward’s way out, isn’t it?”

Anger flared in Jack’s gaze. He leaned forward, his grip on Gabe’s hand tightening. “What did you just say to me?”

“I called you a coward, Morrison!” Gabe said louder. “A fucking coward who’ll spill his heart out to a dying man but doesn’t have the guts to say it to his face.”

“Is that really want you want to say to the guy who just saved your ass?!”

“Yeah, it is!”

“You are so--!” Jack was closer now, close enough for Gabe to taste his breathe, feel the heat from his skin. Close enough to see his eyes scanning Gabriel’s face, searching, and then begin gleaming with decision. “I can’t stand you sometimes.”

“I can’t stand you all the time,” Gabe countered, still smirking.

“You know what? I take it back. I take back _everything_ I said that day!”

“Sucks for me.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, demanding an explanation.

“Because I’m in love with you too, Jackie.”

“What—” But then Jack was kissing him, hard at first, but turning soft the moment he felt Gabriel press into it. Jack leaned over him, one hand bracing him on the bed while the other still clutched at Gabriel’s with an almost unbearable grip. Gabe wasn’t about to let go, though. Not when he’d been thinking about this for so damn long—

And then Jack was pulling away to give him a dry smile. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Isn’t that why you love me?” Gabe pressed, a little eager to hear it now that he wasn’t bleeding out in the middle of the omnic crisis.

But Jack just grinned, those stunning eyes of his all but glowing with adoration. “… Yeah. Yeah, it is.”


	21. McHanzo: We’ll get you help, don’t worry. Just stay awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you do number 27 for a mchanzo drabble please?
> 
> 27\. “We’ll get you help, don’t worry. Just stay awake.”

Hanzo’s breathing was loud.

Compared to the silence of the Route 66 alleyway, his gasps of breath were thunderous, deafening, and kept him from hearing what he wanted to hear most: _the sound of Jesse McCree breathing_.

Jesse was definitely still breathing. Hanzo could see this clearly enough with the rise and fall of his chest, with the twitches of pain the cowboy tried so hard to hide from him. Still, Hanzo wanted to _hear_ that he was alive, _needed_ to be overwhelmed by the reality.

“Stay awake,” he pleaded, his voice a whisper compared to the loudness of his breath. “ **We’ll get you help, do not worry. Just stay awake**.”

“Ain’t worryin’ about nothin’,” Jesse mumbled, his voice a deep, muffled rasp. He winced when he tried to move, and though Hanzo chastised him, he didn’t stop until he was settled further against Hanzo’s chest. His breath was a warm, wet relief against Hanzo’s neck. “What’s a man got to be worried about when he’s got you lookin’ out for him?”

“I… did not do much.” Hanzo swallowed, his gaze trailing down to McCree’s leg. Hanzo had needed to cut through fabric to get to the wound, and he’d done a poor job of stopping the blood.

McCree needed help. _Real_ help. Better help than what Hanzo could give him, but he wouldn’t let Hanzo leave. Grabbed him and held on tight when Hanzo had tried, so the archer simply lowered himself to the ground and let Jesse situate himself in Hanzo’s lap.

Hanzo’s bow was within reach, right beside McCree’s discarded hat. Though maneuvering around McCree might be difficult, he would not hesitate to protect his friend.

_Friend_. The word left a sour tingle on his tongue. McCree had been trying _so hard_ lately, and Hanzo had avoided him at every turn, thinking that somebody like Hanzo did not deserve the attentions of someone like McCree.

Then the other night happened—

Hanzo could still taste Jesse’s lips, the tobacco and whiskey from the bottle they’d been sharing. Could still feel Jesse’s arms around him, the warm weight of flesh and the comforting chill of prosthetic. Could still see the desperate pain in his eyes when Hanzo pulled away, hear him calling out when Hanzo fled….

“You’re broodin’ again,” Jesse said, his voice still too quiet, still too weak. “Wanna share what’s on your mind?”

“You,” Hanzo answered truthfully. They were in an alleyway, covered in blood, waiting for help that might not even arrive. Now was not the time for lies.

Jesse chuckled, albeit painfully. “That’s a good start.”

“You’re impossible, even on the verge of death.”

“Now, hold on. I ain’t on the verge of anythin’. Just a little tired’s all,” McCree tried to reassure him, but that only increased Hanzo’s anxiety.

“You must—”

“Stay awake, yeah. I hear ya.” McCree smiled up at him a little deviously. “Heard ya the first four times, too.”

Hanzo sniffed and raised his chin a bit. “You mock my concern?”

“Never,” McCree answered truthfully. He sobered up a bit, his eyes warm and soft and serious as he gazed intently at Hanzo. The archer felt himself weakening, suffocated by Jesse’s raw emotions, and found he had to quickly look away. His eyes shifted to the alley opening, his brow furrowing in momentary irritation.

“Where is Zenyatta? Genji said they were on their way.”

“Can’t blame ‘im for taking so long. Genji may run to beat the devil, but Zen’s a little on the slow side. In the meantime, I’m awfully comfy where I’m at.”

Hanzo shook his head, leaning back against the alley wall to peer up at the sky. The firmament was a hazy orange still, though Hanzo could see where bursts of stars were appearing in the expanding clusters of dark blue. This gave him something else to focus on instead of the man slowly bleeding out in his lap.

Hanzo shivered. McCree tucked himself in closer, as if to warm him. Eyes burning with frustrating emotion, Hanzo kept staring upward when he addressed the cowboy again.

“You still persist? Even after what happened?”

“Can’t say I blame ya for runnin’ like that. I don’t think either one of us was expectin’ somethin’ like that to happen.” Jesse’s words were coming slower now, his drawl deeper in his exhaustion. He fell silent again, and Hanzo’s gaze snapped down immediately.

“McCree?” he urged, nudging him a bit. When he didn’t move, Hanzo felt panic spike through his heart. “Jesse!”

McCree jerked awake again and then yelped at the pain. Hanzo helped still him, stroking a hand against his brow to calm him down enough to resettle against Hanzo’s chest.

“Stay awake, cowboy. This is why I keep reminding you.”

“I could be persuaded to stay awake,” said McCree, gazing up at Hanzo with a suggestive eye.

“I will do no favors. You must stay awake through your own will.”

“Ain’t this negotiable at all?”

“No.” Hanzo managed a meager smile when McCree huffed in annoyance. “I will not indulge any last requests you wish to make. It can wait until we are safe.”

“But I got ya pinned here. Nowhere for ya to run.” Jesse nestled against him, far too comfortable, but Hanzo didn’t have the mind to care. McCree was right; this moment was fleeting, delicate, broken at any moment by the arrival of Genji and his master. Then he would have to let McCree go, learn what it was like to be one person again, and he was not yet ready for that.

They lapsed into silence, not uncomfortable or unwelcome. Hanzo kept glancing down to ensure that Jesse had not fallen asleep, but each time he found the cowboy watching him keenly. He waited for McCree to say something, but he seemed content to sit there in quiet company.

Just as Hanzo was content to sit there and appreciate McCree’s breathing. Still shallow, still quiet, but still there. He felt McCree sigh deeply and sink against his shoulder, and he hated needing to nudge him back to wakefulness.

“What….” Hanzo began reluctantly, already sure he would regret this in a moment. “What were you thinking could persuade you to stay awake?”

McCree hummed. He didn’t answer until Hanzo shook him a bit. Then, grunting, he blinked up at Hanzo, suddenly wary. “… Jokin’. It was just a joke.”

“Jesse. Your terms.”

McCree shuffled a bit, cringed from the move, and mumbled something quiet.

“What was that.”

“A kiss,” he said louder, suddenly fired up. “I want a kiss, dammit! You want me to stay awake, those are my terms. ‘til then, I think I’m just gonna settle in here for a nice—”

Hanzo’s lips pressing against McCree’s forehead silenced him effectively. Shaking a little, Hanzo trailed his mouth across Jesse’s brow and down to his cheekbone, leaving soft, lingering kisses in his wake. McCree help his breath, and Hanzo wondered if he feared the fragility of the moment. This scared Hanzo as well, but he pressed on, following the curve of McCree’s jaw, stopping once to nuzzle against his beard, and hesitated just short of his lips.

“You don’t gotta do this,” McCree murmured, failing to hide the twinge of disappointment from his drawl.

Hanzo swallowed the remainder of his nerves and gave in. Let himself have this. Let himself _want_ this. He kissed the corner of McCree’s mouth, harder this time, showing his intent. McCree waited, scarcely breathing, and the wide-eyed hopeful expression he wore was what drew Hanzo in to finally seal their lips together.

Hanzo kept things simple, determined that Jesse could handle no more than that. Just soft, long, languid kisses that pulled content sighs from McCree. The cowboy leaned up some, trying for a different angle, trying to push harder, but Hanzo maintained control.

“We have all the time in the world for me to be more… persuasive,” he promised against McCree’s mouth.

“Yeah?” McCree leaned back to make eye contact. He scanned Hanzo’s face, searching for any hint of uncertainty. “No more runnin’?”

“I will not make promises I cannot keep,” Hanzo answered carefully, “but I shall do my best.”

Jesse’s answering grin made Hanzo’s heart soar, and he couldn’t resist leaning in for a taste of it. He hardly noticed when McCree leaned up more, his metal hand sliding around Hanzo’s neck to pull him in for a harder, deeper kiss. Hanzo indulged for a moment, lips parting at McCree’s request, but he moved back soon to give his cowboy a stern look.

“This means you must stay awake,” Hanzo warned, unable to resist a small smile when McCree pressed back in for another kiss.

“Darlin’, I’m feelin’ better already. You’re mighty persuasive.”

And that would do. Hanzo allowed himself to be tugged down once more and carried away by McCree’s fervent mouth.  He should have made the cowboy take it easy, but he was satisfied enough in knowing that McCree wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon.

Too wrapped up in each other, neither one of them noticed the faint yellow glow of Zenyatta’s orb of harmony above McCree’s head. Nor did they spy the green streak of Genji’s visor. He and his master stood as far away as they could, waiting patiently and taking great care not to be unwanted witnesses to Hanzo’s incredible persuasion.


	22. Reaper76: You come to my room and wake me up at 4am, to cuddle?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Squishyscribbler asked: Reaper76 : 34!!!!
> 
> 34\. You come to my room and wake me up at 4am, to cuddle?

Gabriel Reyes was not a heavy sleeper.

After years of fighting wars against the omnics, this was probably to be expected. Sleeping too heavily could be the difference between waking up in time and not waking up at all. Hell, he probably didn’t get a good night’s sleep until the war was _over_. Better alive than well-rested.

It was in a habit kept even now. So the soft, barely audible slide of his door opening still woke him, instinct urging his brain into wakefulness. He held his position, waiting to hear what the intruder would do next.

Whoever it was, they were a fucking idiot. They walked right in without creeping even in the slightest, headed straight for his bed. Gabe took several measured breaths, keeping up the façade of slumber. The moment the stranger was close enough, Gabe grabbed them by the front of their shirt and flipped them onto the bed.

But this was a familiar position, a natural slot of two bodies that knew exactly how to slide together. Immediately, Gabriel realized who it was, and his intense focus shifted to intense _irritation_. “Jack, what the fuck?”

Sure enough, the intruder lifted his head just enough for a flash of blue to shine in momentary moonlight before being lost in shadow once more, confirming that yes, this was Jack goddamn Morrison, recently appointed Strike Commander and golden boy of Overwatch.

Jaw like a fucking movie star and a waistline that should be _illegal_. Charisma and charm for _days_. Admirable on the battle field and more than admirable _off_.

One of the few people that Gabe trusted implicitly with his life. With _more_.

“Happy to see you too,” said Jack dryly, not bothering to move from the spot where Gabriel still had him pinned.

Gabe didn’t know what to say, so he just reiterated, “What the _fuck_ , Jack?! Are you trying to get yourself shot?”

“You sleep with shotguns now?”

“Don’t get fucking smart with me. It’s fucking— _it’s four in the goddamn morning, Jack_! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Gabe’s grip slacked, his voice deepening to a low growl. Jack’s hips shifted a bit beneath him, and he struggled to ignore the spark of arousal in favor of maintaining his anger.

“It’s that late…?” Jack murmured, sounding a little lost. At that, Gabriel felt his sour mood slowly begin to drain away. He released the blond’s shirt so he could reach over and turn on the light, wincing at the initial brightness. Jack cringed as well, turning his head and shutting his eyes, but Gabe still saw how tired he looked.

“Did you just get off work?” Gabe asked quietly, the rest of his annoyance fading into nothing at the exhausted look on Jack’s face. He raised a hand to run along that perfect jawline, his heart clenching when Jack turned his nose to nuzzle into his palm.

Usually, Gabe was the needier one in their relationship, getting pissy and hard to deal with when Jack couldn’t make time for him. It was like Jack was the sun, and Gabe couldn’t go too long without being around him lest he suffer the consequences. But Jack was becoming the sun to more people every day. Gabe had resigned himself to living in shadow a little more often.

Seeing _Jack_ be the needy one for once did things to Gabriel’s heart that he didn’t like.

“Mm-hmm.”

“And you came here instead of going to your own room?” Gabriel wanted to hear Jack say it. _Tell him_ that Jack had missed him, needed to see him. Not to feed his ego but to confirm that Jack was just as invested in this as he was.

Jack’s eyes blinked open, cautious now. “You want me to go?”

“No.” To prove his point, Gabe settled himself on top of Jack, their legs tangling and their hips nestled together comfortably. Jack sighed deeply, satisfied, as if this had been his goal all along.

“We haven’t seen each other much since the promotion,” Jack mumbled, an edge of complaint to his voice. “I think I’ve seen Ana more than you.”

Gabriel smirked, shaking his head a bit. He lowered himself the rest of the way onto the bed, tucking Jack up against him tightly. Golden boy was right about one thing; they’d barely spent any time together, so if Jack was going to go out of his way to see him, Gabe wasn’t about to fucking complain. Even if it _did_ lose him a little sleep. “So what? **You come to my room and wake me up at 4am, to cuddle**?”

Jack hummed contentedly. “Essentially. Sorry I woke you up.”

“You know I can’t sleep through shit. You wanted me to wake up,” Gabe teased as he pressed a kiss to Jack’s forehead.

Jack’s chuckle was almost nonexistent, and Gabe wondered for a moment if he’d fallen asleep. Not that he could blame him, not with his recent schedule and bad habit of overworking himself. So Gabe just pulled him close, wrapping himself around the Strike Commander as well as he could.

It was then that Jack tilted his head up, leaning in for a breathy, soft kiss. Clumsy, drowsy, uncoordinated—but Gabe shivered at the innocence of the gesture. Jack mumbled something incoherent, and Gabe didn’t need to ask what. He merely pressed another kiss to the dozing man’s mouth and held him tight.

“Yeah… me too, Jackie. Me too.”

 

* * *

 

Soldier:76 hated spending what little money he had, but sometimes, he needed to spend the night in a real bed. He knew he always had a place to stay with Ana, but sometimes, looking at her hurt. She reminded him of too much—his past failures, his _current_ failures, how one of his best friends was hunting him down and hellbent on killing him.

It was too much sometimes. So he stayed away when he couldn’t take it, wandered the world almost aimlessly, still searching for Talon. For Reaper. For the end to this war that had gone on far too long.

And, perhaps, for an end to him. He’d lived too long, seen too much. The fight wasn’t over, but what if it was for him? What if he’d fucked up all he could, and now he needed to lay down and let somebody else take the lead?

When thoughts like these began to overwhelm him, that was when Jack knew he needed a real bed. He found a motel somewhere in the middle of nowhere, one where they didn’t ask questions and didn’t look at him twice, and he shut himself away for a night to recharge.

If only a good night’s sleep gave him the energy it used to. Something was missing for that.

76 shed his signature coat and set aside his pulse rifle. Next came his boots, then his visor, and then he fell onto the bed because who the fuck was going to notice or care if he slept in his clothes? He kept a gun nearby—something smaller than his rifle, easier to conceal. Easier to sleep with. As long as his aim was still true, it didn’t matter what weapon he used. It would get the job done just fine.

He must have passed right out because he woke several hours later, groggy. At first, he wasn’t sure what had disrupted his sleep, but then he saw the shadowy movement, and he pulled out his gun. Safety off, 76 took aim and waited for his enemy to stop moving about. The wraith, anticipating the attack, remained untouchable.

Frustrated, 76 glanced at the motel clock, glaring at the digital numbers. A memory resurfaced—a brilliant warm, comforting night wrapped up in—and 76 shoved it back down. Not the time. “It’s four in the fucking morning. What is this, payback?”

“It might be,” came the Reaper’s deep, rasping voice.

76 squinted at the shadowy form. “If you’re here for a fight, can it wait until tomorrow? I’m paid up until noon.”

“I’m not.”

76 raised an eyebrow. “You’re not?” he repeated, a little disbelieving. His aim didn’t waver, waiting for just the right moment to shoot his target. “Then what the hell are you here for?”

He heard footsteps as Reaper solidified once more, and he prepared to dodge twin shotguns. Reaper stayed where he was, though. He didn’t move closer, didn’t raise his weapons to shoot at the soldier. In fact, it looked like he slumped where he stood, just as worn out as Jack felt.

Memory stirred again, and this time, 76 didn’t bother pushing it down.

“Jackie,” said Reaper, sounding a little lost. “I’m so fucking _tired_.”

76 stared at him for a beat, debating, and decided that he was too tired for this shit. So he scooted over and indicated to the empty space beside him. Within seconds, Reaper was there, the bed dipping under their shared weight.

“Take off your mask,” 76 requested off-handedly, not really expecting Reaper to reach up and actually remove it. He leaned up instinctively, and Reaper’s arm slid beneath him, curling around to pull him close. The claws could have been sharp, could have ripped his clothes and tore his flesh, made him bleed.

But Reaper treated him carefully, handled him with such care that 76 shivered from the tenderness. He’d forgotten what it was like to be held like this with such reverence, such _affection_. A long ago, in a different time when they were different men, this had been the norm for them, not chasing each other to the ends of the earth and fighting to the death.

Now, the familiarity just made 76 sad. Sad and yearning for days he would never be able to get back.

So he said, “I suppose we’ll go back to killing each other in the morning?” One of these days, he figured, they would say this and it might actually come true. It could be tomorrow. Judging by how clingy Reaper was being, 76 doubted it.

On cue, Reaper just grunted and tangled their legs, lazily pinning 76’s waist to the bed with one heavy thigh. 76 took a deep, shuddering breath, wanting to say more, desperate to hide how much this singular moment meant to him, but Reaper didn’t give him the chance. The wraith put down his chin, tilted his head, and dragged his mouth along the length of 76’s. His lips were cold but not unwelcome, and 76 gave him over for as long as Reaper wanted to kiss him.

After a short moment of slightly sloppy but very determined kisses, Reaper pulled away to collapse against Jack and mumble something unintelligible. 76 didn’t need to ask what.

“Yeah, Gabe… me too.”


	23. McHanzo: Stop pretending you're okay, cause I know you're not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> flamingknickers asked: Hiiii. I saw the prompt list and couldn’t resist. How about 15 for McHanzo?
> 
> 15\. "Stop pretending you’re okay, cause I know you’re not."

The first week with Overwatch felt like a year.

Everywhere Hanzo walked, he seemed to find more and more loathing stares. Nobody would speak to him, save for a few words at meetings or sharp warnings during missions. The members of the original Overwatch treated him with distrust and caution, as if he might be a wild animal that could show its teeth at any moment and tear them all asunder.

The newer members of Overwatch treated him with fear, a time bomb prepped to explode when least expected.

They all had one thing in common: they expected him to harm his brother once again.

Nobody would leave Hanzo alone with Genji for more than a few moments. If it wasn’t Angela calling Genji away for a checkup, then it was Lena asking him for a friendly spar or Winston asking him to run a small errand.

Hanzo could not complain much; Genji had so many people to care for him, and for that, Hanzo was grateful. And Hanzo—Hanzo had spent years alone, days and nights on the run where he could only count on himself.

Of course nothing would change once he listened to his brother’s call. These people would not _accept_ him. He was fairly certain that they did not even wish to _welcome_ him and did so only at Genji’s request. Hanzo would be the first to admit that he was not worthy of anything more.

So he was surprised when he found the cowboy leaning up against the wall outside the practice range, clearly waiting for him. His posture was casual but guarded, his hat pulled down low to shield his eyes. A trail of smoke drifted from the end of his cigar, and Hanzo wondered if he did not fear Angela’s wrath at smoking indoors.

Should Hanzo stop, address the cowboy? He and Jesse McCree were not exactly on the best terms; McCree had been a fellow member of Blackwatch, Genji had explained after McCree promptly punched Hanzo in the face.

The archer still had the bruise to show for it. He deserved that. He deserved any blemish or scar dealt to him in Genji’s honor. If Genji did not see fit to punish Hanzo for his crimes, then at least his companions would.

Hanzo expected cold remarks, insults, another punch to the face. What he got was a heavily accented, “You okay?”

A loaded question. Hanzo was exhausted when it came to all categories. His muscles screamed from overexertion after his latest rigorous training session. His stomach yearned for nourishment, but he refused to eat with the rest of the team and make them uncomfortable. And his mind yearned for sleep, hours and hours of long, uninterrupted slumber. Days, perhaps. Weeks. Months. It did not matter, so long as he was left alone.

Hanzo voiced none of these things. He merely held his head high, scoffed, and strode wordlessly past the cowboy. McCree did not care, not truly. He would sooner put Hanzo in the ground himself than express genuine worry for him. Genji probably put him up to this.

Hanzo already had their faux welcome; he would not have their faux concern as well.

 

* * *

 

 

Six months felt like six years.

Hanzo’s tenuous relationship with the members of Overwatch was just that—tenuous. The others were less hostile now, their smiles borderline friendly and their conversations polite yet to the point. Some of them, he thought, might actually like them. Hanzo would not wish for more, did not feel he deserved more.

So when a mission went wrong, Hanzo expected the progression of events. Genji had been hurt, more than what any of them could call normal for a mission. Angela was flying around the med bay, shouting orders to anyone who would listen to her. Zenyatta floated about, in clear distress over Genji’s state and trying his best to help. Lucio was bouncing back and forth between other patients, trying to stop wounds from bleeding and checking on broken bones. None of them paid the archer any mind, and why would they? He had yet to mention that he had been injured.

Hanzo sat in a chair by the door, watching from afar. He kept his breathing even and inconspicuous, more worried about his brother than he was about his own gunshot wound. He tried not to think about his own carelessness the moment Genji got hurt.

He hadn’t really thought twice, just jumped down from his position to pick up his broken brother. If Genji had been made of all flesh, his wounds might have been fatal. Hanzo tried to tell himself that, but every time he looked at Genji’s unmoving body, all he could was how _he did this to him_.

If Hanzo hadn’t—then Genji wouldn’t be with Overwatch. He wouldn’t be unresponsive, possibly lost, and he—

Then he heard the gunshot. Felt the slightest bit of pressure in his shoulder. Confused, he looked down at the blood dripping onto the ground. Jaw set, he kept moving, not stopping to assess the damage or even acknowledge that he’d just been shot.

The pain didn’t come until later, once reality replaced adrenaline.

Hanzo wasn’t an idiot. Once he had his brother in the hands of the doctor, he made sure to at least wrap the wound, stop the bleeding for the most part. By his guess, the bullet hadn’t done much damage. He would be fine. He had suffered worse.

_Genji_ had suffered worse. Hanzo could bear this.

“Angie says Genji’s gonna be just fine. If you hadn’t got him outta there when you did, he might’a—you okay?” McCree’s voice shifted from relieved to worried in a matter of seconds. Hanzo slowly lifted his eyes to look at the cowboy, mildly surprised to see actual concern for Hanzo furrowing his brow.

The cowboy’s hat was gone, having been set aside when he got to work helping Angela, and his cigar was missing too. Hanzo could see his face clearly for the first time—or, perhaps he’d just never looked before.

“Are you okay?” McCree repeated, trying to tilt his whole body to see where Hanzo had been shot.

“I am fine,” Hanzo reassured tightly, gritting his teeth to keep his face from betraying the pain he was in.

“ **Stop pretendin’ you’re okay, cause I know you’re not**.” McCree’s jaw was tight, his flesh fist clenched to the point of shaking. Hanzo thought little of it. “You get shot?”

Hanzo was too weary and in too much pain to lie, so he gave a curt nod. “During the retreat with Genji.”

“And you didn’t think to let anybody know?” McCree didn’t sound worried anymore. He sounded _angry_ , _furious_ even. Hanzo wondered only briefly about that.

“Genji—”

“ _Genji’s_ gonna be pissed when he wakes up and hears how we let his brother bleed to death all because you’re too damn pigheaded to let someone know when ya get hurt!” McCree snapped, practically vibrating with frustrated energy.

“My brother is incredibly _hurt_. You cannot yell at me for prioritizing the more injured patient!”

“Like hell I can’t!” But McCree deflated some, shot Hanzo a glare, and stomped back across the room.

The argument was over. Hanzo had won. He supposed he should feel a little happier at making McCree see reason, but just then, he was _tired_. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, resigned to wait until somebody had time to address his injuries. Perhaps he would take a small nap until then….

A sudden feeling of weightlessness washed over him, bringing a slight sting to his injuries. Brow furrowed, he opened his eyes to see Zenyatta looking directly at him, the omnic’s face expressionless but still somehow judgmental. Hanzo looked up.

An orb of Harmony hovered cheerily above his head. _Of course_.

McCree returned, sitting beside Hanzo this time and looking incredibly too pleased with himself. “Lucio’s gonna take a look at ya as soon as he’s done with Rein. Just hang in there a little bit longer, okay?”

“This was unnecessary,” Hanzo insisted, anger swelling up within him that was stamped down by the gaze McCree slid to him. Hanzo slumped some, body relaxing now that he wasn’t in so much agony. “This pain is my penance for the things that I have done.”

McCree considered that thoughtfully. “Don’t you think you’re taking this redemption thing a little far?”

Hanzo bristled. “What I did—”

“Was horrible, I ain’t gonna sugar coat it. Hell, I hated ya for the longest time. Wanted to put a bullet in ya myself.” McCree turned to face him, and his brown eyes were warmer than Hanzo had ever seen them, not unkind in the slightest. “Then I saw how hard you’re tryin’ and realized I might’a been a bit unfair to ya. There ain’t no fixin’ what ya done, but there is movin’ on. You don’t gotta punish yourself for the rest of your life.”

“I….” Hanzo was at a loss for words. “I do not deserve—”

“And that’s another thing. Stop gettin’ hung up on what you think you deserve. You deserve good things, too.”

Hanzo scoffed, turning away to watch Angela work on Genji. He thought he saw Genji try to raise his hand, only to be stopped and scolded by Zenyatta, and the sight brought Hanzo some measure of peace. “And who is going to make sure I remember this? You? You are only doing this for my brother.”

McCree was quiet for a long moment, and Hanzo thought for a moment that he had won again. Then the cowboy spoke up, his voice quiet but firm. “And if it was me? If I stuck around to remind you that you deserve more than what you think you do?”

“Then you would be wasting your time.”

McCree grinned a little. “My time to waste.”

Hanzo had no other choice than to chuckle quietly and agree, “I suppose it is.”

 

* * *

 

 

A year felt like just that—a year.

The first half of his year with Overwatch felt distant now, unreal but still very much a part of his life. McCree had stuck to his word and strove to make sure Hanzo didn’t do anything stupid again. He went out of his way to spend _time_ with him, going so far as to make silly bets in the practice range and seeking him out to try a new brand of whiskey. Hanzo began to look forward to these small occasions, anticipate them with an almost childlike excitement he had not felt in many years.

And with McCree came other changes. Angela made sure he came by for checkups, chastising him when she realized how little he’d been sleeping. Hana discovered Hanzo’s hidden talent for video games (“Where do you think Genji acquired _his_ skill?”) and started stealing him away to participate in her streams.

It had taken time, just as Genji had said, but Hanzo was being _accepted_. _Liked_.

And sometimes, he just didn’t understand it. Sometimes, it was just too much for him, and he couldn’t breathe from the overwhelming fear that he _didn’t deserve this_. Why should he have an easy life after all that he had done? Why should he get to smile and laugh with _friends_ when he had so brought much pain to so many, let alone his own brother?

On nights like these, Hanzo would find himself alone in the practice range, overworking his body into complete exhaustion. He pushed himself until he could hardly breathe, hardly feel anything but the soreness of his body. Until he could no longer hear the doubts plaguing his mind.

Until he hardly noticed when he collapsed and landed in someone’s arms instead of on the floor. He fell against a strong chest, his sweaty face pillowing on crisp cotton. He inhaled once, and the smell of smoke gave away his rescuer.

Hanzo stiffened for a moment, believing he should not show such weakness to his friend. But Jesse’s arms were sturdy and strong, stronger than Hanzo was just then, and it was so easy to just _give in_. Hanzo leaned into him, welcomed comfort he would have shoved away months ago.

Because—because he—he _deserved this_.

Hanzo stifled a sob in his throat, choked on it, and burrowed his face against McCree’s broad chest. He deserved this. He was _allowed_ this. And once he let himself believe that, it was so simple to sink into McCree’s lap without worrying about whether he was welcome there.

Jesse stayed quiet while Hanzo worked through his turmoil, still there at the end to ask, “You okay? No lyin’ now.”

Hanzo’s smile was unbidden but welcome. Easy. No, he would not lie. Did not need to lie. Not to the cowboy who had wormed his way under Hanzo’s carefully structured defenses for no other reason than for Hanzo’s own sake.

No. Hanzo told him the truth.

“I am now.”


	24. Genyatta: Choose me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: andlmqod those prompts are so gooooood, 22 genyatta maybe?
> 
> 22\. "Choose me."

Genji had very few things to pack.

A photo of himself and his brother when they were young, before Hanzo turned against him and stole his life away. A photo of himself with the rest of his Blackwatch team, most of which were probably dead now. He didn’t want to think about what happened in Geneva, if he’d been able to stop it.

He’d chosen to leave, to find himself, and what did he have to show for it? Some old photographs and more doubt.

The last thing Genji had was yet another photograph, this one of the Shambali monks he’d been living with. He’d taken the picture himself during meditation a few weeks ago, if for no other reason than to have a picture of his master.

He could pick Zenyatta out of the crowd easily, right there in front, his head bowed but still somehow distracted. Genji wondered if Zenyatta had been watching him all along, had known he was sneaking a picture of him.

Zenyatta… yes, he was part of the reason Genji was choosing to leave. He cared for his master too deeply to put into words, and that frightened him. After—after _Hanzo_ , Genji had sworn never to put so much faith and trust in another, lest it might cost him his life. His own flesh and blood had nearly _murdered_ him; what of this monk he hardly knew?

This monk, who helped him feel lighter than he’d been in years. Who offered him guidance and peace and expected nothing in return. This monk… this monk who Genji….

Genji stowed away the photos and took a deep breath. Leaving at night was, perhaps, the cowardly thing to do, but Genji had never boasted his _bravery_. Zenyatta would find his note, would know that he had gone and hoped their paths would cross again, yada yada yada.

A load of bullshit. That was what Genji left behind for Zenyatta to find. A bunch of empty words with empty meanings, none of which gave away Genji’s true feelings. Which was fine, he supposed. Feelings meant pain. Agony. Betrayal. That was all this… this _fancy_ for his master would bring him. Just more of the same that he was trying to escape from his past.

And yet, already it _hurt_. He wished he had a cybernetic heart, one that might not feel as much. Or at least lessen the stifling pain overwhelming him at the very thought of leaving his master.

Zenyatta would be better off without him, anyway. Cliché as it sounded, Genji just caused trouble. He disrupted meditations. He was _constantly_ hurting himself doing stupid things. The monks hated how often he liked to climb into places he shouldn’t be able to reach and just complained in general about him.

Perhaps his master could have some peace and quiet once Genji was gone. Yes. The was for the best.

Resolute in his decision, Genji turned toward the door, only to find Zenyatta floating there. He took a deep breath and a step back. Did Zenyatta realize what he was about to do? Perhaps he could still salvage this. He could… he could say he was about to go for a walk! Yes, a walk! To climb the monastery again. Of course. That sounded completely like him.

But what if Zenyatta asked to join him? He did like watching Genji climb his way into random places. The rest of the monks freaked out when Genji found his way to the roof, but Zenyatta just laughed. Genji liked it when he laughed.

Genji liked it when Zenyatta did most things. That was why he needed to leave.

Both of them were quiet for a long moment. Genji wondered if Zenyatta was waiting for him to speak first or if he was at a loss for what to say, given that Genji was trying to sneak away in the dead of night. Maybe he was angry. Or just plain disappointed.

Zenyatta probably thought he knew Genji better than this. Didn’t his master know that Genji was a coward? He thought of Hanzo and decided that maybe it ran in the family.

He kind of hoped Zenyatta would yell at him. That might make him feel better. Did Zenyatta even yell? Genji guessed he would find out.

Zenyatta did not yell, however. The omnic simply lowered his head and asked, “Are you certain?”

Genji took another deep breath, his master’s words clenching around his heart like a fist. “I think it is for the best, master. I do not belong with you.”

“Where do you belong?” Zenyatta’s voice rang with a melancholic sort of longing, and Genji had to force back the emotions rising up within him.

“I do not know.” Genji shuffled a bit, unsatisfied with his own answer. “Perhaps I do not belong anywhere.”

“My student— _Genji_.” Zenyatta drifted closer until he could reach out and clasp one of Genji’s hands in both of his. “I do not believe that. We all have _somewhere_ we belong. And if… if you must leave in order to find that place, then I will not keep you from the right path.”

“What if I do not know the right path? What if there are too many, and—what if I’m wrong?”

Zenyatta hummed, almost a laugh but not quite there. Genji supposed he was responsible for the omnics poor spirits. “You ask many questions. I am afraid I do not have all the answers for you. Is that… is that why you are choosing to leave? Have I failed you with my guidance?”

“No! No, of course not!” Genji brought up his other hand to grip Zenyatta’s, their fingers a comfortable tangle. Genji was certain that he had never felt so much inner peace than he did at that moment, holding hands with his master in a quiet room with not even the moon’s light as their witness.

“Master,” he murmured, torn between wanting to leave right then and wanting to beg Zenyatta to go with him. “You have taught me so much, and I could never hope to repay you.”

“I have never asked for payment,” said Zenyatta, mildly confused. “I wanted to help you because I care about you.”

Genji swallowed around the lump in his throat, his heart doing strange things in his chest. Zenyatta _cared_ , but did he care the way Genji did about him? He was afraid to ask.

“I am… confused,” he decided at last. “My reasons for staying with you have become biased, and I don’t know what to do about it!”

Zenyatta nodded a little, digesting this with an air of serenity that Genji envied. “So you have a choice to make?”

Genji sighed. “It appears so.”

“The decision is yours to make, but I can only hope that you will….” Zenyatta fell silent, seeming nervous, shy. Genji hardly had a moment to marvel at how _adorable_ that was before his master was looking back at him with renewed decision. “ **Choose me**. Choose me as well, my sparrow. Allow me to accompany you on your search to find where you belong. And if I become a burden to you, then we shall part.”

“You want to travel with me?” Genji repeated, sure he was hearing wrong. Zenyatta was trying to spread the world of the Shambali; sure, he could do that if he followed Genji, but why would he _want_ to?

How could Genji tell him that Zenyatta was the whole reason Genji wanted to set off on his own?

“But—but my biased reasons! How can you stay with me in good faith when you know that I—”

“I care not for your reasons,” said Zenyatta flippantly. “I only wish for your company. Would you considered _that_ unbiased?”

“Yes.”

“Then we are in accord, are we not?” If possible, Zenyatta would have been raising an eyebrow.

Genji wanted to argue. Pull away. Tell Zenyatta that this was a bad idea, that Zenyatta could not possibly _care_ the way that Genji—

But then Genji looked down at their joined hands, at the way that Zenyatta held onto him as if afraid Genji would flee without him. The way Genji held onto _him_ as if afraid Zenyatta might banish him rom his sight. Perhaps it was not so farfetched that Zenyatta _could_ feel the same that Genji did.

“Yes, master. Forgive my selfishness.”

Zenyatta laughed—he was _laughing_ again. Genji felt a weight lift from his chest, and he smiled. He would do anything to make his master laugh.

“Think nothing of it, my sparrow. You should rest now; we will leave tomorrow. The monks like you _so much_. They would be offended were we to depart without bidding them farewell.”

Genji chuckled but nodded his agreement. He was pretty sure the monks would be glad to get rid of him, but he wouldn’t say that to his master. Zenyatta probably knew anyway.

“Goodnight, Genji,” said Zenyatta, giving his hands one more squeeze before letting go at last.

“Goodnight, master.” Genji watched Zenyatta float from the room, glancing back once to assess if he though Genji might try to slip away again.

But Genji would not. He would wait until tomorrow, say his goodbyes to the stuffy monks at the monastery, and then leave with Zenyatta. They would travel the world, searching for the place where Genji might not feel an outcast…

… when all along, the place he belonged would always be drifting diligently right beside him.


	25. Reaper76: Please come home. I miss you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Can you do 39 for Reaper76?
> 
> 39\. "Please come home. I miss you."

 The Reaper was always easy to find. All one would need to do was follow the bodies.

And there were plenty of bodies to follow, each one felled by the same shotguns known to the wraith. Usually, they had once been affiliates of Overwatch and had either contributed to its demise or simply turned a blind eye. Arguably deserving of death, depending on how you looked at it.

So many had died already, and yet Reaper left behind more bodies. So it was easy to find him.

Not that Soldier:76 was interested in _finding_ him at the moment. No, he wanted to _anticipate_ where his mortal enemy would go next and leave something for him to find.

 Not a body; that wasn’t the vigilante’s style, killing where he didn’t need to. Hell, he still hadn’t killed Reaper, who was probably his greatest enemy. Also his strongest weakness, and 76 would be the first to admit that. The fact that _he_ was still breathing as well said something about Reaper’s thoughts on the matter.

76 knew that Reaper would recognize his handwriting. Back in the day, Gabe used to tease him that his penmanship looked like it belonged to a cheerleader and not the Strike Commander of Overwatch. Gabe’s handwriting was literally illegible though, so Jack always reminded him that he had no room to talk.

A pang of longing filled 76, staring down at the simple letter he left for Reaper to find. Reminiscing about the past would bring him no joy, no advantage, and yet it pushed him to write this stupid letter. Stupid because he knew how this would end—with one of them dead.

And maybe that was for the best.

76 glared at the letter for a moment, debated tearing it into pieces, but left it after all. He turned around and began walking, unsure how long it would take Reaper to find his note but knowing he needed to be ready for when he did.

 

* * *

 

“What the fuck is this?” Reaper tossed the letter onto the table, his voice angry and grating in the dark kitchen. 76 looked up at the man standing across from him, choosing to favor him instead of the letter. He knew what he’d written; what he didn’t know was what Reaper had to say about it.

**_Please come home. I miss you._ **

_Home_ was an old farm house in Indiana, long abandoned and left in disarray. When 76 got there, he was surprised to find the door still intact. Most of the house looked normal too, as if they’d never left. As if Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes were still alive and planning to return someday.

The bedroom was not so untouched. The drawers had been ripped out, their contents scattered about the room angrily. The covers had been torn off the bed, thrown aimlessly, and 76’s pillow had been ripped to pieces.

Probably Reaper. Nobody else had a key. Nobody else even knew about this place. It had been their getaway, a safe place they could go to get away from the politics, the omnics, the war. After what happened… 76 never felt right coming back without his other half.

 _Somebody_ had obviously felt otherwise.

76 leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, watching Reaper closely. His visor sat on the table beside the paper in question, so he had a clear view of the frustrated wraith.  “Are you telling me you don’t recognize a letter when you see one?”

Reaper growled, low and angry and threatening. 76 tried to pretend he didn’t like the way that sounded.

“Clearly you read it. You’re here.” 76 tilted his head to the side. “How many tries did it take you to figure out I meant here?”

“None,” Reaper muttered, pissed off. “I knew where you meant. None of the bases were ever _home_. Not like here.”

Jack smiled a little, that odd yearning back in his chest. He was heavy with it, almost overwhelmed by it, and he had to shove it back down before the emotion consumed him.

“So? What the fuck is this letter about?” Reaper demanded.

“Maybe I wanted to see you on neutral ground?” 76 suggested, shrugging.

Reaper hissed, and suddenly he was aiming a shotgun at the soldier’s head. 76 didn’t even tense in anticipation. If Reaper wanted to kill him, he would’ve already been dead. No, this was for show, for dominance, when they’d always been equal in this house.

It was a game 76 wasn’t playing.

“You’d shoot an unarmed man?” he asked, an eyebrow raised challengingly.

“Un— _unarmed_?” Reaper snarled furiously. He tossed the gun off to the side, grabbed Jack by the collar of his jacket, and shoved him up against the wall. Still strong, still built thick like a tank, and still capable of pushing 76 up against the nearest available surface and—well. This used to be more fun.

Reaper was growling again, confused, frustrated, _desperate_. This was new territory for Soldier:76 and Reaper—and yet, familiar territory for Jack and Gabe.

“Why the _fuck_ would you invite me here and not bring your fucking gun? I don’t remember you being such an idiot, Jack!”

“Maybe I was hoping we could have a civilized conversation without trying to shoot each other!” 76 yelled back, filled with a sudden anger that surprised even him.

Reaper reeled back, as though unsure how to handle this turn of events. “About _what_?”

“I don’t know! I missed you, dammit!”

The room stilled, the tension all but evaporating. Reaper was panting, his grip still tight on 76 but at least he wasn’t yelling at him anymore. 76 leaned his head back against the wall, wishing he could look anywhere except at that bone mask, where he knew Reaper watched him with cold, anticipatory eyes.

“Do you realize how long we were together?” 76 asked, all the fight gone from him. Not that the fight had ever been there to begin with, but now the anger was gone as well, leaving nothing but defeat and an unbearable loneliness in its wake.

“A long damn time.”

“A long damn time,” 76 repeated, nodding. “We’ve been a part of each other’s lives even longer. Friends, lovers, enemies—you’re the only constant in my life, Gabriel. You’re—you’re _home_. Not this house. Not any of the Overwatch bases. Nothing. Nobody else. Just you.”

Reaper said nothing, apparently digesting this. 76 couldn’t read him with the mask on. He thought he felt a slight tremble in the wraith’s hands, but he convinced himself he was imagining it.

“And I get it. You hate me, and you have every damn right. We fight, we try to kill each other—it’s our way now, but sometimes? Sometimes I just _miss you_ , Gabriel. I miss you, and it fucking sucks.”

Still, Reaper said nothing. 76 was running out of things to say. He opened his mouth, trying to think of something, when Reaper’s laughter cut him off. The sound was inhuman, low, cruel, but still unmistakably _Gabe_. 76 just stared.

“I can’t believe this,” Reaper muttered, shaking his head. He let go of 76 with one hand to reach for his mask. “All these years, and you’re _still_ making speeches like you’re in some fucking war movie. You’re so fucking annoying, you know that?”

“I’ve been told. Mostly by you.” 76 leaned back more as Reaper began to advance, his face unfamiliar but still the same one that 76 had known for years. He found himself reaching for Reaper, drawing him in close, shivering at the feel of his icy breath fanning across his cheeks. “I bet you still know the best way to shut me up.”

Reaper grinned now, and it was all Gabriel. He didn’t say it, but Jack knew, could see it shining in eyes that were once brown and now gleamed red: _76 was home for him, too_.

“You know what? I bet I do. Come here, Jackie—“ And that was the last thing said for quite some time.  

 


	26. McHanzo: Stay with me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> telperion14370 asked: Mchanzo 3 plzzzzz sounds like a possible angst but with happy ending? I need that right now TuT
> 
> 3\. "Stay with me."

Jesse McCree was not anything like Hanzo expected.

When they began dating, Hanzo assumed his kisses would be rough—biting, bruising, hard presses of lips and tongue and teeth, taking and giving and taking again until Hanzo was nothing but a breathless mess completely at the cowboy’s mercy. Jesse’s exterior made him think this; he always looked so rugged and rogue with his gleaming eyes and that sly, crooked grin as he tossed out flirtations as easy as breathing.

Sometimes, McCree’s kisses _were_ like that. Mostly on days when the missions had been rough, the loss greater than the gain. When memories of gangs and blood and death came crawling back and McCree needed to be grounded back to reality. Hanzo welcomed these kisses as he always assumed he would: with equal passion and bite that always made McCree chuckle.

But this was not always how things were. Usually, Hanzo learned the difficult way, McCree’s kisses were _slow_ , sometimes painstakingly so. Slow and deep and _frustratingly_ wonderful, those always made Hanzo’s head spin and his toes curl, though he would die sooner than admit as much.

Hanzo wasn’t sure how to take kisses like these. McCree kissed him as though Hanzo _mattered_. As though McCree _cared_. As though Hanzo might shatter if not cherished properly, and Hanzo almost _hated it_.

He hated that McCree could affect him so with such simple presses of his mouth. How he longed for them when McCree was away, how he _craved them_ whenever his annoying cowboy was near. Hanzo was not used to relying on the physical comfort of another, but, _oh_ , how he came to need those kisses!

Better than the feeling of splitting an arrow in the middle of the target. Better than winning a meaningless argument with Genji. Than his favorite food, film, music—the feel of McCree’s lips caressing his own so sweetly could not be compared to any of those trivial things.

Hanzo wanted to _live_ in those kisses.

But….

Sometimes such attentions were not welcome.

Sometimes Hanzo’s demons were not having gentle and consuming. They demanded ferocity, overwhelming and sharp, almost _painful_ to leave Hanzo gasping and exhausted and out of his own mind. And those demons _needed_ to be sated.

So Hanzo tried to lead McCree into a harsh kiss, hoping the cowboy would cave and give Hanzo what he wanted. Hanzo tried to shove McCree up against the wall of his bedroom, _tried_ to grip his shirt and nip at his lips and convince him to respond in kind.

McCree was having _none_ of Hanzo’s demons.

“Hanzo. Hanzo!” McCree gently detached the frustrated Hanzo, smiling a bit nervously at Hanzo’s glare. “Hey, darlin’, everything all right?”

“Why would it not be?” Hanzo asked, attempting to keep irritation from leaking into his voice. By the way McCree raised his eyebrow, he assumed he had failed.

“Bein’ a bit rough tonight, Han.”

“Is that a problem?” Hanzo’s voice was sharper than he intended, colder. This wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t _know_ what he wanted, only that Jesse wasn’t giving it to him.

“No,” McCree reluctantly began, with the hint of a _but_ coming along shortly.

“Then we should continue.” Hanzo began to move forward again, intending to silence any protests that McCree might have.

But then McCree caught Hanzo’s cheeks in big, calloused hands, and Hanzo stilled. McCree’s eyes were intense, holding Hanzo’s gaze while his thumbs rubbed soothing paths along Hanzo’s cheekbones.

Hanzo couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Too overwhelmed to do anything but stand there while Jesse gradually inched closer. His mind began to race, filling with thoughts of anger and doubt and self-loathing—but then McCree was making low, soothing shushes, his breath warm as it fanned over Hanzo’s cheeks.

“ **Stay with me** ,” Jesse pleaded. He nuzzled his nose against Hanzo’s drawing him back. Drawing him _forward_. “Stay with me, darlin’, that’s it.”

Hanzo released a strange noise, some cross between a strangled sob and a gasp for air. “ _Jesse_ —”

Then McCree was kissing him in that slow, sweet, tender way that made Hanzo’s head spin and his toes curl, though he would not mind admitting so now. He gave in to McCree’s steady pace, and that surrender was much simpler than he ever would have anticipated.

Jesse McCree was not anything like Hanzo expected, and for that? Hanzo was glad.


	27. Genyatta: Despite what you think, I am completely capable of taking care of myself.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: Genyatta 12 plz! Love ur work
> 
> 12\. Despite what you think, I am completely capable of taking care of myself.

“Are you certain that you will be all right on your own?” Zenyatta questioned for what felt like the thousandth time since they arrived at the monastery. They weren’t staying long; only for Zenyatta to deliver a letter from Mandate to some local members of the Shambali. Then they would be on their way, aimless as it was but also delightful and much needed for Genji after his time with Overwatch.

“I will be _fine_ ,” Genji insisted yet again, waving the omnic off toward the entrance. “ **Despite what you think, I am completely capable of taking care of myself.** ”

Zenyatta laughed happily, and Genji couldn’t hold back a smile. He just _loved_ when his master laughed. Luckily for him, Genji made enough stupid decisions that he got to hear Zenyatta laugh quite often, though he never felt laughed _at_. Zenyatta never made him feel degraded or foolish, even at times when he probably should.

“I know you can take care of yourself,” began Zenyatta, trying to decide how to continue without offending Genji. The ninja grinned and waited, sure he would not be disappointed. “… Promise you will not climb any more buildings?”

“I’ll wait until you get back,” Genji promised solemnly, earning another chuckle from his master.

“I would like that!” With an amicable wave and with an air that Genji could only describe as _smiling_ , Zenyatta floated into the monastery, leaving Genji to his own devices. He glanced about the small town before he started wandering around, eager for something to do.

Genji truly wanted to find something to repay Zenyatta for all he had done for the young ninja—kindness during the stormy nightmares that plagued him even now; guidance to assist in Genji’s journey for acceptance; and, more importantly, endless patience for when Genji just didn’t want the help. Genji knew he could be a handful (he’d heard it enough from Commander Reyes and Strike Commander Morrison in his days working for the organization), but Zenyatta hadn’t given up on him. Hadn’t even considered it, if Genji knew him well enough to say so.

But every time Genji asked him how he could ever repay the monk for all that he had done for him, Zenyatta would simply spin his orbs serenely and reply, “Just seeing you accept yourself is payment enough, my student.”

_But Genji wasn’t satisfied with that_.

He walked around for a bit, wondering what he could get for Zenyatta that would convey how he felt. Something like a trinket just wouldn’t do. Zenyatta wasn’t one for material possessions, and something so simple just seemed… _detached_. Genji needed his master to understand how grateful he was, and he didn’t think a physical gift would do the trick at all.

This was _hopeless_. Why was he even bothering? Even _if_ he figured out something to give to Zenyatta, he knew what would happen: his master would accept the present and thank him, but not without an air of reproach. Hanzo had always been the same way; just had to be _impossible_ when it came to—

Hanzo. _Hanzo_. For the first time, thinking of his brother didn’t bring him an onslaught of painful memories to agonize over. This time, he _smiled_. _Grinned_ , really.

Because Hanzo was _just as impossible_ to shop for as Zenyatta was, and he _always_ knew the perfect gift to get Hanzo.

Genji, practically bouncing with childlike glee, followed the path out of the town. He found a nice patch of grass decorated with an array of colorful wildflowers and took a seat there. Still beaming happily, he began to pick all the flowers he would need for Zenyatta’s present.

When he was a kid, Hanzo had made him _swear_ he wouldn’t get him any presents. He didn’t care what they were or how much he would like them; he wanted _nothing_ of the sort because he was stuffy and stupid and liked to suck the fun out of—

Well. Maybe Hanzo wasn’t _that bad_ , but he always thought he needed to be an adult, like it was expected of him to grow up early and push away things like gifts. Genji always thought that wasn’t very fair and decided his brother needed spoiled, too. So instead of _buying_ Hanzo a present, Genji would _make_ him one.

And the expression of awe breaking through Hanzo’s stony exterior had always been _so worth it_.

Genji set to work. His hands were different now, but that didn’t stop him when it came to the delicate weaving. It was easy to get lost in the motions, the easy repetition of a task he had performed many times in his youth.

And, as always when his mind wandered, he found himself thinking of his master. How different his life was now compared to who he was before.  

When Zenyatta offered him a life of peace where he wouldn’t need to fight every day for his life, Genji almost hadn’t believed him. He _still_ wouldn’t believe him were he not living such a life now. He no longer feared waking to the sight of a gun in his face—though, he hadn’t cared much at all when such was a reality for him.

That had changed as well. He didn’t want to die anymore. Zenyatta had _saved him_ —from the world, from himself. Could this small token truly be enough…?

Genji stared at the finished product. How fragile, this ring of woken flowers. How fleeting. Even as he held them, the flowers were _dying_. What if Zenyatta didn’t like that? Didn’t like that he’d prematurely killed such pretty blooms just to make him something so _stupid_?

Never mind. Zenyatta probably didn’t even _know_ the word stupid, let alone think it in conjunction with Genji. He took a long, deep breath and closed his eyes.

Zenyatta would like his gift. He wouldn’t think it was stupid or pointless, just the way Hanzo didn’t. Genji had nothing to worry about. Right. Okay. Pep-talk over, he reopened his eyes.

And found Zenyatta hovering in front of him, head tilted to the side curiously. “I wondered where you wandered off to, my student. Were you meditating?”

“No, no, I, uh—have you finished your business for Mondatta?” Genji asked as he stumbled his way back to his feet. Usually, he could be astoundingly graceful, but being around Zenyatta made him forget how to properly operate his legs for some reason.

_For some reason_. Genji knew the reason, he just wasn’t sure he wanted to cross that bridge yet.

“I have,” Zenyatta answered, nodding once. “Would you like to stay longer, or shall we be on our way?”

“Oh! I don’t, uh… it doesn’t really matter to me, Master,” Genji hastily mumbled, still turning over the flower crown in his hands. He took a deep breath.

Better do it now, before he lost his nerve.

“I made you something while I was waiting. Just a small gift—to, uh… To show my gratitude for all you have done for me,” Genji said in a rush, hoping that Zenyatta understood him the first time.

“Sparrow, as I told you before, I—” But Zenyatta’s voice died away the moment he saw the flower crown in Genji’s hands. His orbs whirred once before resuming their quiet tinkling. Genji wondered if this was a good response or not. He wasn’t scolding Genji, so that was a good sign, right?

Unless his master was in shock of Genji’s disgraceful behavior. Yes. That was perfectly plausible.

But then Zenyatta held out his hands with such reverence, Genji felt it deep in his heart. He passed over the flower crown, which was brilliant with reds and blues and gods. Genji had done well, for what materials he had on hand for short notice.

“You made this,” Zenyatta said as he gingerly held the flower crown.

“I did, yes,” Genji concurred, nodding once. He watched Zenyatta, reminded of the captivated expression Hanzo would always wear. “I made it _for you_.”

“For me,” Zenyatta repeated. He kept staring down at the circlet of wildflowers, as if he didn’t quite know what to make of it. Genji really wanted him to try it on to make sure it fit, but he was content with waiting as well. Seeing Zenyatta so fascinated by something so simple was like witnessing a small miracle—over before you know it, but life-changing if you’re lucky enough to see it.

Zenyatta made it _better_ , though. Slowly, he lifted the flower crown and placed it on his head. The crown fit there perfectly, snug and comfortable right on his brow. Genji didn’t like to brag _too much_ (which was a lie, and anybody who knew him would say otherwise), but before he could speak to compliment his master, Zenyatta was laughing.

Unprovoked, infectious, entirely charming to hear, Zenyatta’s delighted laughter filled Genji’s small clearing, somehow bringing more life to the grass and the flowers and Genji. Especially Genji.

Genji stood there, his smile broad and pleased as he listened to his master’s enchanted titters, in no rush to interrupt. If this was how Zenyatta was going to react, he would make him flower crowns more often. He would make them _every day_.

Each and every one would be more than worth it, just to hear Zenyatta smile.

 


	28. McHanzo: "Why are you so jealous?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "For the writing prompt could you do #8 with a jealous McCree? It would make my day!!"
> 
> 8\. "Why are you so jealous?"

McCree stood by the bar, slowly tipping back a glass of champagne he couldn’t even taste. He was supposed to be keeping an eye out for illegal arms dealing going on, but McCree couldn’t focus on the mission. No, he was too busy glaring at his partner on the other side of the ballroom.

Hanzo looked fucking  _beautiful_. His suit was tailor-made and fit him too damn well for it to be  _right_ , and he’d hardly stopped smiling since they arrived. McCree knew it was all an act, that the Hanzo he knew and loved would never smile so much, not naturally, but the people who kept approaching him were too stupid to realize that Hanzo was just playing a part.

_Jesse_  knew Hanzo for who he really was,  _not_ the bastard trying to get lucky by chatting up the pretty Japanese man. McCree had half a mind to stomp over there and break them up, but no. That might blow their cover. He didn’t want to risk it.

Winston had stressed that if this mission went south, Talon could get their hands on some incredibly powerful weapons, and the reformed Overwatch might not be able to handle it. All that stood in the way was Hanzo, McCree, and now this asshole leaning too close to Hanzo and smiling too nicely and—

Shit.

McCree downed another glass of champagne. He wasn’t supposed to be drinking, but that had never stopped him before. He was too pissed to get drunk, anyway. He was pissed and didn’t have any real reason to be pissed and  _that_ was pissing him off even more.

It didn’t help that Hanzo hadn’t even  _looked_ at him. Not when Jesse arrived, a little later as per agreement so nobody would think they were together. Not when a pretty woman asked Jesse to dance. And not when this asshole took a seat and began his aggressive flirtations.

Setting aside the empty glass, Jesse scanned the room for anything that might catch his eye. Nothing involving Talon.  _Everything_ involving Hanzo.

The asshole was too close to the archer now, and McCree could see Hanzo’s discomfort from the other side of the room. He kept glancing around, looking for a way out of the conversation and finding none. The man accosting him was either too drunk to notice or too drunk to care, but  _McCree_  noticed.  _McCree_  cared.

His fist clenching, he turned away from the room entirely, choosing instead to stare at the several empty champagne glasses he’d left on the table. He almost reached for another. Almost asked for something stronger. Anything to distract him from what was going on with Hanzo and the jackass on the other side of the room.

Jesse wasn’t allowed to get involved. They had to be  _strangers_. Strangers could talk though, right? He could go over and ask for a dance or something. Anything to get Hanzo away from a guy who looked like he wanted to reach out and—

He didn’t have to think about it long before all hell broke loose, in typical mission fashion. Later, they would learn that there was a disagreement about the price of the weapons, that Talon tried to skimp the seller. Whatever the case, McCree was glad a fight broke out before he had to go over and break some guy’s arm.

It was pretty cut and dry after that. The two of them managed to take out the Talon operatives, acquire the weapons, and return both to the proper authorities, operating under the lie of  _we just happened to be here, officer, I don’t know what this Overwatch thing you’re mentionin’ is_. Hanzo said very little to Jesse, and at the time, the cowboy hadn’t thought much about it. Hanzo could be pretty quiet on missions, especially after he’d been forced to act so out of character all night. McCree wasn’t about to push him.

In public, of course. Once they were in their hotel room unwinding for the night, McCree expected a change. Hanzo always collapsed against him, exhausted and needing a recharge of the ol’ McCree batteries. Or if he still needed some space, he would at  _least_  give Jesse a kiss on the cheek before he disappeared for a few hours.

Tonight, though? Tonight, Hanzo blatantly ignored him. The moment the two of them entered their shared room, Hanzo took to himself, loosening his tie and pretending that McCree didn’t exist. Jesse leaned against the doorway, trying to remember if he’d done anything wrong lately, but he couldn’t think of a damn thing.

He could always wait until Hanzo was ready to tell him what was wrong, but fuck that. McCree had watched some other man ogle his archer all damn night, and he was gonna have some cuddles. He unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt and approached the subject gently.

“So what the fuck’re you so pissed about?” Yeah. Gentle. Way to go, cowboy.

Hanzo snorted but said nothing.

“Did I actually do it? Or do you just think I did it?”

Hanzo’s cool glare was answer enough. He’d done it, all right. He’d definitely done it, and he needed to be sorry  _real_ fast.

Hanzo was talking before McCree could start thinking about an apology. “Are you insecure with our relationship?”

“What?” McCree asked, completely dumbfounded. He stepped closer to Hanzo, who only receded a step toward the opposite wall. “Now what gave you an idea like that?”

Hanzo’s mouth tilted into a wry sneer; any moment now, and he might be baring teeth, and then McCree would have to pretend that didn’t turn him on as much as it definitely would. “I could practically  _feel_ you seething from the other side of the room. Did you think I would not notice you staring the whole time? You could have jeopardized our mission!”

“Yeah, and what about you?” McCree demanded, anger rising up in him again. He knew it wasn’t  _Hanzo_  he was angry at, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from directing his ire at him. “Lettin’ that guy cozy on up to ya like that?”

“ _That_ is what upset you?” Hanzo raised an eyebrow, silently judging him. McCree could  _feel it_  in his stare. Genji used to do that kinda shit, too. Must be a ninja thing. “ **Why are you so jealous**?”

“I ain’t  _jealous_ ,” McCree replied, suddenly feeling like an idiot. So maybe he’d been a  _little_ jealous. No big deal. Not now that he could gather Hanzo up in his arms and shower him with affection.

But Hanzo’s body language was closed off, tight and stiff and unwelcoming. His shoulders were rigid, his chin turned up in that way that seemed to reek of superiority but that McCree knew was just an act. When Hanzo spoke again, his quiet voice sounded strangled with suppressed anxiety, and the sound of it punched McCree in the gut.

“You are most certainly jealous, Jesse. The only reason I can think is that you don’t feel stable enough in our relationship.”

“Now, hold on.” McCree advanced again, hands stretched out to pull Hanzo to him. At first, Hanzo tried to resist, twisting and tugging to no avail. He was weak to McCree’s touch, and soon he was swaying toward Jesse, longing to lean into his chest but having too much that still needed saying.

“Do you not trust me? Do you think that I would cheat on you with some drunkard  _while you were in the same room_?”

“That ain’t it, darlin’. Come here.” McCree cupped Hanzo’s face in his hands, thumbs rubbing smooth circles against sharp cheekbones. “O’ course I trust you. I trust you with my life, and I trust you with my heart. You weren’t what was buggin’ me about the whole thing.”

“Then what was it?” Hanzo was still trying his best to resist McCree’s touch. His best wasn’t very good.

“I… I couldn’t do  _anything_. I had to just stand there and watch while some asshole got up all nice and close with ya, and that just—I  _hated_ it. I hated seein’ how uncomfortable ya were. I hated that I couldn’t just go over there and plant one on ya. Show that guy that you’re spoken for.” Now that he was saying it aloud, Jesse was definitely feeling like a damn idiot, but it still  _irked him_.

He could still see that guy’s face in his mind and wondered how far he’d gotten. Maybe kicking the man’s ass would help? McCree could say that he was just a casualty during the mission. Yeah. Nobody would ever know the difference.

“You—” Hanzo huffed, which sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “You are a  _ridiculous_ man. I am fully capable of defending my own honor.”

“Yeah, I know that! You’re more than capable, Han.” McCree shifted a bit. Hanzo hadn’t even started scolding him yet, but he already felt like a damn child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Doesn’t mean you should have to.”

The hard lines of Hanzo’s face softened in endearment, and he threaded his fingers into McCree’s hair to pull his mouth closer. McCree went willingly, eager for the slow kiss Hanzo led him into. Hanzo’s touch was grounding, reassuring, and exactly what McCree had been aching for all night. He parted his lips and let Hanzo delve deep, barely noticing when Hanzo began to direct him toward the bed.

Before he knew it, McCree was sitting on the bed with a lapful of archer, barely able to tell where he ended and Hanzo began. He would’ve been content to just stay there, enjoying the familiar press and pull of Hanzo’s mouth, but his man had other plans. Hanzo pulled away to press their foreheads together, breathless as he struggled to find the words he needed.

“Never forget that  _you_  are the one I have chosen, McCree. I come home to you, not some inebriated man foolish enough to think I could be so easily won over.”  _You are home_ , was the unstated message, but Jesse heard it loud and clear. Saw it in the way Hanzo’s eyes warmed the moment the cowboy gazed at him. Felt it in the way Hanzo gripped his shoulders, fingers pressing with a firmness that McCree welcomed gladly.

McCree felt a smile creep across his face. Hanzo  _did_ have a point; it’d been hell trying to get the prickly bastard to open up in the beginning, but McCree had kept at it. He worked hard getting through that prickly exterior, gradually building up a foundation of trust until Hanzo opened up to him.

And Jesse’s reward was sitting in his lap, looking at him so adoringly, it fucking  _hurt_.

“I ain’t gonna promise I won’t get jealous again.”

Hanzo rolled his eyes but smirked. “No, I would not expect you to. Perhaps next time, you will be able to intervene and defend me as you see fit.”

“And you ain’t gonna get pissy at me?”

Hanzo shrugged. “If you are being foolish, it  _is_ my duty to inform you.”

“Good enough for me, sugar,” McCree determined, laughing. He considered himself a lucky man that he could pull Hanzo back in for another languid kiss and feel the content way Hanzo melted against him, his sigh quiet and relaxing. Sure, he might not have been able to get involved earlier, but this? More than enough to put his heart at ease.

“Hey, how would you react if  _you_  were jealous?”

“I would not get jealous. I would eliminate the problem before it became a threat.”

“Wha— _Hanzo_ ,  _you fuckin’ hypocrite_.”


	29. Genyatta: Please don't cry. I can't stand to see you cry.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: Hello! How about Genyatta 2? “Please don’t cry. I can’t stand to see you cry”. Your work always makes my day! Thank you.
> 
> This literally made MY day, so thank you!

“Genji, you should really get some rest.”

“I should stay here.”

A soft hand appeared on his shoulder, squeezing the cold plate of his armor, but Genji felt it nonetheless. He took a deep breath, let himself relax under the grasp of those thin fingers. For a moment, it worked, and he could feel his anxieties beginning to drain away.

Then Genji looked to the motionless, soundless body before him, and it all came rushing back.

“ _Genji_ ,” Angela insisted, sounding more worried for him than she had been for her patient. Not that Zenyatta was even her patient; most of the repairs had been done by Brigitte, a little more open to omnics than her father was.

Genji  _hated_ that. She should be more concerned about  _Zenyatta_  than for Genji. Genji was  _fine_.  _Unharmed_.  _Awake_. The same could not be said for Zenyatta.

“Sitting here won’t make him wake up faster,” Angela tried to reason, her hand moving from his shoulder to rub supportively down his arm; Genji fought the urge to shove her touch away. “You’ve been here for  _hours_.”

Seventeen hours, forty-six minutes, and thirty-two seconds, to be precise.

“You need your sleep.”

“My body is cybernetic; it will be fine.” Truthfully, Genji was  _exhausted_. He hadn’t been to sleep since before the mission, and his human parts were sore. His other parts were sore too, and he wasn’t sure they were even  _supposed_ to be.

But what was he supposed to do? Go to seep and not be here if—when,  _when_ , he kept reminding himself—Zenyatta woke up? Sleep could wait, just as Genji would. Genji would wait forever if it meant hearing Zenyatta say his name again. The way he always did, without all the noise and gunfire and chaos.

‘ _Genji!’_

Cringing, Genji shook his head and, at last, did politely push away Angela’s hand. She sighed, her arms crossed as she frowned down at him.

“I know what you’re made of; I built half of you, in case you’ve forgotten.” She was quiet for a long pause, perhaps waiting for Genji to speak. He did not. She continued, “I could have you removed from the infirmary. Or inject you with a sedative for your own wellbeing.”

“You could,” Genji agreed, finally tearing his eyes away from his master so he could meet the doctor’s gaze, find out how serious she was about this. He liked what he was seeing: worry, of course, but also a sliver of defeat. “But you won’t.”

Angela’s shoulders sagged as she sighed again, this time less annoyed and more resigned. Genji admired her tenacity—but appreciated her empathy more. It was what made her a good doctor and an even better friend.

“Can I at least convince you to eat something?”

Genji wasn’t hungry. “I’m starving.”

“Good!” Angela smiled, relieved, and Genji felt a little bad for giving her such a hard time. Only a little. “I’ll go see if there’s anything in the kitchen. Give you a moment alone with….”

“Thank you.” Genji turned away from her, a clear sign of dismissal. Angela hesitated for a moment, probably wondering if it was safe to leave Genji alone in such a state.

But Genji wasn’t  _stupid_. He wasn’t going to  _do_ something stupid. He had to be here when Zenyatta woke up. All hope was not lost.

Yet.

Genji hardly heard Angela leave, for he was far too distracted looking at his master. Zenyatta looked at peace, his body stretched out and his hands folded casually, but Genji knew better. He knew what the words  _critical system failure_ meant and what they might imply.

That Zenyatta might not wake up.

That even if Zenyatta did, he might not be the same. That he—that he might not remember his time together with Genji. That he might not remember Genji  _at all_.

Omnics were just as susceptible to memory loss as humans, and the strain on his internal systems might have been too much for him to handle. And if he didn’t remember Genji… well, Genji would just have to deal with that. He wasn’t a fan of starting over, but he cared enough about Zenyatta that he didn’t care. As long as Zenyatta didn’t banish him from his company, then Genji would do everything in his power to help Zenyatta remember.

_If_ he even woke up, of course.

_When_ , Genji reminded himself once more.  _When_ he woke up. Zenyatta was going to wake up. He would wake up and tell Genji that he’d been silly for not sleeping or eating or leaving his bedside in almost eighteen hours—

_Eighteen hours_.

Genji took a deep breath and tried to center himself. He was getting upset, and then Angela really  _would_ kick him out of the infirmary. Deep breaths. Deep, even breaths. He shut his eyes, keeping up with the breathing exercise he’d learned from—

_But it was too quiet_. Genji opened his eyes, stared again at Zenyatta. Unlit, his forehead array looked surprisingly dull, and that was a word he’d never used about his master before this moment. He’d never realized how much comfort he took in something as simple as Zenyatta’s mere presence. Without the comforting whir of Zenyatta’s mainframe, Genji couldn’t concentrate on meditating. The silence was  _deafening_. Overwhelming.

Genji took a deep breath. It didn’t help. He gazed at Zenyatta and tried not to think of the last time Zenyatta gazed back.

Genji couldn’t even  _remember_ the mission. It was supposed to be simple, he knew that, but the rest of it was a blur of details that failed to remain important the moment Zenyatta got shot. They hadn’t anticipated the sniper. Once second, Genji could hear Lena’s voice ringing out to keep his head down, and the next, the sound of the gunshot reverberated all the way through his body.

Gasping, Genji put a hand to his face, wishing he could think of anything other than the sight of Zenyatta, lifeless and on the ground, having taken a bullet that was meant for  _Genji_. Thoughts of Mondatta raced through his head, and he choked on a sob that just wouldn’t remain within him.

Mondatta hadn’t realized what was about to happen to him. He’d been blindsided, hadn’t even seen the bullet coming.  _Zenyatta_  had known, had  _chosen_  to shove Genji out of the way just before the sniper’s shot could strike him. The bullet might have missed him! Genji could have deflected in time!

_‘Genji!’_

Genji shut his eyes against stinging tears, didn’t bother stopping them as they fell at last.

Zenyatta couldn’t take that kind of chance, and Genji? He would have done the same, had their positions been reversed. Wouldn’t have even considered letting his master be in harm’s way.

Because he— _because he_ —

“I love you,” Genji murmured, his body hunching over as he gripped Zenyatta’s motionless hand with both of his own. Like this, Zenyatta felt so  _frail_ , just wires and parts, but they were  _important_  to Genji. Together, they made Zenyatta, and Zenyatta made him  _whole_.

“ _I love you_. Please, Zenyatta, come back to me,” Genji begged, his body wracked with suppressed emotion. “I don’t care if you remember me! I don’t care if you’re even the same at all! Just wake up!”

Genji put his head down and took another breath. He needed to stop looking at Zenyatta. Every time he saw his master’s prone form, he just felt  _worse_. Would this feeling ever go away? Even if— _whenwhenwhenwhenwhen_ —Zenyatta woke, would he stop feeling as if  _he_ should be the one on the bed?

Genji didn’t have time to think about it. He heard clicking, the soft hum of a machine coming back to life, and he lifted his head with a gasp. The lights on Zenyatta’s forehead flickered for a moment, several colors forming different patterns, before they settled on the familiar blue. Before Zenyatta’s eyes lit, and Genji could  _feel_ his master looking at him once more.

“Master? Can you hear me?”

Zenyatta tilted his head to the side curiously. “You are right beside me, my student. I would hope that I can hear you.”

Genji breathed a sigh of relief and tried to keep it together. He didn’t want to overwhelm Zenyatta just after waking up, so he took a moment to calm himself, watching his master lift his hands and bend his fingers. Seeing what still worked. He bent his legs and turned his head, lifted his arms and rotated his shoulders, but all the while, Genji could feel himself being watched.

Zenyatta hadn’t taken his eyes off him yet. Genji tried very hard not to find enjoyment in that.

“What is the last thing you remember?” Genji asked, beginning to lean back. Boundaries were never a big deal between them, but he figured that his master might want some space, having just woken up.

He was wrong. The moment he began to move away, Zenyatta’s hand latched onto his arm and pulled him close again. Caught off guard, Genji moved willingly, unable to tear his eyes off of Zenyatta.

“The sniper,” said the monk, synthetic voice filled with an unrecognizable emotion. “Did you get hurt?”

“No,” Genji tried to say, but the word came out broken and high pitched. He cleared his throat and tried again, hoping Zenyatta didn’t notice the tears forming in his eyes. Zenyatta almost  _died_ , and he was worried about  _Genji_? The cyborg couldn’t even wrap his head around that. “No, master, I am fine.”

“And the sniper?” Zenyatta’s voice still sounded a little strange, and Genji couldn’t pinpoint what he might be feeling.

What he  _did_ know was that Zenyatta didn’t really condone vengeful killing. He taught Genji that there was nothing to be gained from vengeance, no satisfaction or relief. But it had felt  _really good_  slicing through that sniper, watching them fall to his feet for what they had done to his master.

“… I took care of them,” he answered truthfully, holding Zenyatta’s gaze with the hope that he might not feel any disappointment. After all, Genji wasn’t really a student anymore, therefore his moments of weakness were his own. Zenyatta would not need to take the blame.

But Zenyatta did not voice disappointment or preach restraint. Instead he whispered, still clinging to Genji’s arm as if he might he a lifeline, “ _Good_.”

“Master?”

Zenyatta’s was reluctant for a moment. Genji waited quietly, unsure, until Zenyatta voiced at last, “I hope you will not think less of me for being glad that they are dead.”

“Of course not, I—”

“May I finish?” Zenyatta sounded tired but not the least bit annoyed, ever patient with him.

Genji still put his head down in apology, nodding a few times. “Forgive me, master. Continue.”  

Zenyatta struggled to find words, uncommon for him. Genji began to wonder if being in hibernation for so long did some damage to his circuitry. After all, a number of things could go wrong with an omnic, and Brigitte was  _wonderful_ but what if she overlooked something and—

A hand appeared on his chin, lifting his face to look at Zenyatta again. “I can hear you overthinking.”

“Forgive me.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. Your worry for me is, as always, endearing and not without gratitude, but I fear I am not worthy of it.”

Genji didn’t see how that was possible, but he didn’t say anything. Just waited. Zenyatta’s shoulders sagged for a moment before straightening with renewed determination.

“That sniper could have hurt you,” he said by way of explanation. Was that why Zenyatta thought that he wasn’t worthy of Genji’s concerns? Because he wanted that sniper dead for daring to even  _aim_  at Genji? Perhaps the two of them were not so different after all.

Genji’s eyes narrowed. “They  _did_ hurt you.”

Zenyatta huffed with the same frustration building within Genji. “You are not understanding—”

“No, it’s  _you_  who isn’t understanding! You almost died!” Now that the floodgate was open, Genji didn’t know how to shut away the emotions pouring out of him. he tried to calm himself, take a deep breath and find peace, but he just  _couldn’t_. His eyes began to sting with infuriating tears, and he had to look away from his master for fear of showing too much weakness.

“You could have  _died_ , Zenyatta. And if you didn’t, you might not have remembered me. All because you took a bullet that was meant for me! I—I—I am not worthy of that!”

“Genji.” Zenyatta’s voice was soft and sweet, all for him, and he choked on a sob at the reminder that he almost lost his chance to hear that voice again. Zenyatta said his name again, that wonderful tone almost breathless with awe, and then two hands were cupping his cheeks to wipe away his tears. “ **Please do not cry. I cannot stand to see you cry**.”

Genji gasped for air, his own hands finding purchase on Zenyatta’s shoulders. He found comfort in the feel of him, the subtle vibrations of his inner workings keeping alive that which Genji cared about most. He could faintly hear Zenyatta whispering encouragements to him, trying to help ease the storm brewing within him.

How many times had Zenyatta done this in the past? Doing nothing more but offering his company, helping to ground him when his brain swam in turmoil? And just as always, it worked. Being with Zenyatta gave him a peace he had never thought to be real, and soon he was breathing again.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, suddenly exhausted. “I… haven’t had much rest since”— _since you got shot_ —“and I’m probably just tired.”

“Yes,” Zenyatta mused, a tad mischievous. “Eighteen hours of vigilance will leave one tremendously drained.”

“How did you…?”

“Genji, I am an omnic. Do you truly believe that I would not notice something as simple as the time of day?”

Genji swallowed. “You could hear me this whole time… couldn’t you? You heard everything I said.”

For a long moment, Zenyatta was quiet. Genji tried to stay patient, but he could practically  _feel_ his anxieties clawing about inside him (which felt, remarkably, like being torn asunder by his brother). What Zenyatta said next could change everything. Or maybe it wouldn’t change anything at all. Genji didn’t know, and that was what bothered him.

In the end, Zenyatta never said anything. In the end, he didn’t need to. He simply pulled Genji’s face forward, ever so gently, until their foreheads touched. In all his years, Genji had never felt something so…  _wonderful_  as that cool touch against his brow.

Zenyatta wasn’t exactly cold, nor was he warm. To Genji, he felt… unique, completely Zenyatta and nothing more. He’d never experienced anything like this, and he didn’t anticipate that he ever would again.

Unless Zenyatta was saying what he thought he was saying. And if he was? Genji’s life just got  _made_.

When Zenyatta did speak, at last, Genji found himself hanging on every word. “I heard you, Genji…  _I heard you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I never reply to comments (because I don't like that me adding a reply adds a comment and just don't want to clog the comment feed up with my own keyboard smashes) so I just want you all to know how much I love and appreciate each and every one of you for reading this and leaving kudos or comments. It means the world to me, and I'm so happy that I'm creating content that you're enjoying. <3


	30. McHanzo: "Choose me."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gleeyatch asked: "Number 22 for mchanzo please?"
> 
> 22\. "Choose me."

Jesse McCree looked around his room and found it bare. Nothing to suggest he’d ever been there. Nothing to suggest he might come back. Nothing of himself within these grey walls he’d called home twice.

He slung his bag over his shoulder. Paused. Tried to stifle the reluctance brewing in his stomach.

Leaving was for the best. It was a mantra he’d repeated a countless number of times in front of his bathroom mirror. Leaving was for the best. The more he said it, the less he believed it, and the more he wanted to just unpack and stay instead of being a _fucking coward_ —

Jesse took a deep breath. Best to leave on a high note, anyway. Nothing had happened. Nobody would suspect the real reason he wanted to leave. And if they did? Maybe he could get out before someone called him out on it.

Leaving was for the best. Maybe one of these days, he would believe it.

Jesse left his room, empty and devoid of any trace he’d been there. Later, if anybody realized he hadn’t been there for breakfast or training, then one of them might go check on him. Find nothing but the faint aroma of tobacco.

Maybe it would be Angie, and she could get all annoyed with the realization he’d been smoking in his room. Or maybe Genji, who probably wouldn’t tell anybody for a while; he’d understand and give Jesse the opportunity to get a head start.

Probably, though… Hanzo would be the one to check on him. He wouldn’t be there for their morning practice or for lunch, which both of them attended religiously if they weren’t out on a mission. Hanzo would probably go to his room and knock. Wait. Call out for him. Wait.

Hell, maybe Hanzo would even kick down the door. McCree got a little chuckle out of that. Probably not. He’d just ask Athena where McCree was.

And then Athena would tell Hanzo that Jesse wasn’t on the base anymore. Left early in the morning, before the sun was up. Didn’t even have the decency to fucking say goodbye, just ran off.

 _Like a fucking coward_.

McCree shoved away the thoughts as he continued down the hallway, careful to keep quiet. The last thing he needed was somebody hearing him and coming out to see what the noise was. Then he’d have to explain, and explanations were _messy_.

He thought about stopping by some of their drinking spots. The ledge atop the watchpoint, where Hanzo liked to monkey himself up and McCree used the stairs like a normal fucking person. The lounge, where Hanzo had fallen asleep on him for the first time. Hell, he even thought about stopping by Hanzo’s room to just stare at the door like a fucking creep, but no. He avoided all of those places.

Just made for the door, fully intending on vanishing into the dark cover of morning twilight. He made it pretty far, too. He was outside, headed for the open road. Ready to leave everything behind him (again) and everybody he ever cared about (again) and not look back.

“Going somewhere, gunslinger?”

McCree stiffened. _Shit_. He turned around to find Hanzo leaning against the wall and watching him. Not the Hanzo that everybody was used to seeing, with his hair up and his clothes pristine. No, this was _Jesse_ ’ _s Hanzo_ , whose hair was free and a little disheveled and who wore sweatpants and a t-shirt in place of his usual garb. This was the Hanzo that not many knew existed but which Jesse knew intimately.

This was the Hanzo that he—

“Funny,” continued Hanzo in a tone that suggested he did not find this very funny at all, “I do not recall you mentioning that you might be leaving. Is there a mission?”

McCree ground his teeth. Fucking Shimadas and their sneakiness. He should’ve known one of them would catch him. He just wished it had been the damn ninja and not the one he’d been hoping to avoid.

“No,” McCree said carefully.

“No?” Hanzo repeated, and there it was. That signature Hanzo Rage that came out when he got a little angrier than normal. He likely knew what McCree was up to and didn’t understand it, so that pissed him off. “Then where would you be going with all of your belongings?”

McCree might as well be blunt about it. “I’m leavin’, Hanzo. And I ain’t comin’ back.”

Hanzo was quiet for a moment, digesting this. When he spoke, his voice was curt and emotionless, the Hanzo that McCree had first met who didn’t want to get attached to anybody and especially not the cowboy.

“Why?”

“I got my reasons,” answered McCree, not wanting to get into this with him. Maybe with somebody else, but not with _Hanzo_.

Hanzo leveled him with a glare. “Which are?”

Jesse looked at Hanzo and saw the distress gleaming behind the mask of anger. He deserved an explanation, but what did McCree say? That he couldn’t stay here anymore because just the sight of Hanzo made his stomach queasy? That the sight of Hanzo smile brightened his day, even when he was tired and sore after a long mission? That nothing mattered more to him than the evenings they spent together, drinking and talking about nothing and everything or even just sitting in silence and appreciating each other’s company?

That Jesse was so fucking in love with Hanzo that he was stupid with it?

No. McCree couldn’t say any of that. Not when it might sour their friendship, even if McCree never intended on seeing Hanzo ever again. He wanted Hanzo to remember him fondly, if no other way. As friends.

Jesse wanted to throw up.

He picked the best bullshit he could come up with, something Hanzo might believe. “Listen, Han, I ain’t one to work with groups—”

“Neither am I,” Hanzo interrupted. “Try again.”

Jesse huffed. “I hate sittin’ in one place all the time—”

“As do I,” Hanzo sneered, a bit triumphant. “I can do this all morning, Jesse.”

“ _Fine_. I got one you ain’t gonna measure up to.” And McCree made his biggest mistake: stalking closer to Hanzo, as if proximity might help him get his point across. “Overwatch ain’t justice. It’s never _been_ justice. Yeah, maybe it started out like that in the beginnin’, but that wasn’t what it ended up bein’. It was all money and politics, and the fuckin’ victims ended up comin’ second.”

“Overwatch is different now, is it not?” Hanzo pointed out, a little quieter than before. He was staring at McCree’s face with something akin to fear, as if he’d just realized that McCree was serious about leaving. As if he’d just realized he might never _see_ McCree again, so he had to soak in all of him while he had the chance.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on McCree’s part. Probably. He just couldn’t see a scenario that ended happily for him. In every daydream he’d ever concocted where he told Hanzo the truth, he always ended up being called a fool because _who could ever love a man like him_? Hanzo probably didn’t even _like_ men, and if he did? McCree was probably at the bottom of his list.

“Yeah, it’s different _now_ , but I know how this’ll go. We won’t we workin’ under the radar for long before somebody catches us, and then they’ll either take us down or build us back up. And if it’s the second one, then Overwatch should ‘a just stayed dead. We’ll end up bein’ all about money and politics _again_ , and that ain’t justice. Not to me.” Jesse paused to catch his breath. Some of that might actually have been true, which was good for him. Hanzo might earnestly believe it if there was an air of reality to it.

“So the way I see it, I got a choice to make: do I stick around and see what’ll become of us the second time around or do I go out on my own again and make my own kind o’ justice?”

Hanzo’s eyes were dark and stormy, like that quiet moment of intensity before he unleashed his dragonstrike. McCree held his gaze as he waited for Hanzo buy his bullshit and let him go, and he tried not to think about how much he would miss this asshole archer. Already, he felt the hole of yearning expanding in his chest, and he wondered what would happen first—if he would get over his feeling for Hanzo or be swallowed by them.

At last, Hanzo reached his decision with a quiet huff and a tilt of his chin. McCree didn’t have long to figure out what he was so frustrated about before Hanzo’s hands were curled into his serape.

“You have one more choice,” he growled and then pulled McCree in.

His hat fell to the ground, but he didn’t care. His serape was strangling him, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was the hard press of Hanzo’s mouth against his, kissing him with such determination that McCree was too stunned to even _react_. By the time he realized he _should_ do something— _at least kiss the man back, dammit, how long have you been dreaming about this?_ —Hanzo pulled away again, breathless and overcome with emotion.

“ **Choose me** ,” Hanzo encouraged, his voice rough and inviting. ”Stay. See this through. And if you do not like the direction the reformed Overwatch is headed, then we will leave _together_.”

“Together,” Jesse repeated, dumbfounded.

“If you will have me, that is. I do not wish to presume….” Hanzo’s eyes shifted downward, momentarily plagued with doubt, and McCree reached up to brush his fingertips along Hanzo’s cheek.

“Darlin’,” he said, still stunned but determined to work through this before Hanzo got the wrong idea. “I’ll take anythin’ you’re willin’ to give me.”

Hanzo looked back up at him, relief etched on his face. “Then we are in agreement? You will stay?”

Jesse thought about all of his fake reasons for leaving and the one _real_ reason, whose hands were still tangled in his serape as if to keep him leaving by sheer force. He supposed he really couldn’t leave _now_ , could he? Still, he should probably draw this out a little bit more, not give away his real motives just yet.

“I dunno,” McCree said, turning away a bit only to be jerked back by Hanzo. “I might be in need of a little more convincin’.”

And Hanzo’s eyes narrowed knowingly, his lips curling up in a smirk. He began to lean in again, slower now that the urgency was gone. “As much as it will take.”

“That’s good,” he mumbled against Hanzo’s lips, much more prepared this time. “Cause I’ll need convincin’ for a _long time_.”


	31. McHanzo: "Why are you so nice to me?"/ "I think you're just afraid to be happy."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous said: McHanzo with 20:”I think you’re just afraid to be happy” and 21 “Why are you so nice to me” I love me some angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays all! Sorry I've been quiet for some time. Life has been so busy lately, and now I'm really backed up on requests. So if you've sent me something and haven't seen it yet, I still plan to write it as soon as things calm down! <3 All my love!

Hanzo’s limbs felt terribly heavy as he trudged from one end of the Overwatch base to the other. His legs were sore, his arms were worse, and he was fairly certain he would literally fall apart if he had to nock one more arrow in his bow.

The away mission had been more than a little trying. Not only was the mission in Hanamura, but tensions had been running high with Genji as of late. They spent most of the last mission bickering, slinging accusations at each other and making the rest of the team uncomfortable. Hanzo couldn’t even remember why they were fighting or why it had been so important to be right.

That was his problem, usually. Always needing to be superior in every area: amongst his teammates, his tentative friends, his own brother, his relationship—

Hanzo stilled for a moment, leaning against the wall as he stared blankly down the hallway. Jesse. He’d been so wrapped up in arguing with Genji that he’d forgotten he’d also had a disagreement with his boyfriend.

He scoffed, pessimistic. _If he could even call McCree his boyfriend now_. What had they even fought about? So exhausted, he struggled to recall what it had been.

Abruptly, Hanzo remembered, and he winced at the memory. Jesse had asked if he wanted to move into his room or vice versa, cut down all the time they spent travelling back and forth when they both knew they’d end up in one room regardless. Usually, Jesse spent the night with Hanzo; his room was the closest when they were leaving the lounge, so there they would stumble, usually half-drunk and eager to fall apart with each other.

It would be foolish to expect McCree to be in his room now. For all Hanzo knew, the cowboy was away on a mission, visiting with one of his many friends on the base, or just avoiding him. Remembering the hurt and confused look on Jesse’s face when last they spoke, Hanzo anticipated the latter.

Now even more reluctant, Hanzo trudged the rest of the way to his room. He just wanted to sleep. Sleep until somebody came to get him. Forever, even, if he was left alone. Why would anybody bother with him?  He and Genji weren’t talking, he’d dismissed Jesse without a moment’s consideration, and—

And did it even matter? Hanzo deserved this. All he could do was bring pain. His hands were made to fell his enemies, his lips to speak cruel words to bring harm to those he cared about most. Hanzo deserved to be alone; what had he even been thinking when he joined Overwatch? He should have just ignored Genji’s offer.

Everyone would be much happier, Hanzo rationalized, his mood spiraling downward. Genji would not feel the strain of seeing his almost-murderer on a daily basis. Jesse could give his time and attention to somebody actually _worthy_. And Hanzo—

Well. Hanzo would be alone. Like he deserved.

With a heavy heart, Hanzo entered his room, fully intending to collapse in a useless, pathetic pile onto his bed and stay there. He wasn’t even going to change out of his gear. Just… sleep.

This plan was thrown out the window when he realized that somebody was already on his bed. Jesse sat there looking anxious. He stood up when Hanzo entered, his hand rising to adjust his absent hat and instead running through shaggy hair that Hanzo knew to be soft to the touch.

Hanzo ignored the longing to just _go to his cowboy_ long enough to ask, “Jesse? What are you doing here?”

“Listen,” Jesse began, all nerves and no charisma. It was strange to see him so far outside of his element. “I know you’re probably mad at me for pushin’ like I did.”

Hanzo stared at him wordlessly. Was he actually hearing what he thought he was hearing? Surely McCree wasn’t _apologizing_? Not when he didn’t have anything to apologize for? Not when Hanzo had been cold and cruel and said such horrible things to him?

“You like your space; I get it. I’m real sorry about sayin’ anythin’ that might’a upset you. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to just… go on like I never brought it up. I understand if you want some space, but I—”

Hanzo’s mouth moved before his mind caught up. “Are you an idiot?”

Anger flashed in Jesse’s eyes, but he swallowed it down. He smiled a little, a hard curl of the lips that shouldn’t have been as attractive as it was. “’Scuse me, darlin’?”

“After I yelled at you the way I did, you still want to be with me?” Hanzo demanded, confusion turning into rage as he walked toward McCree. Impressively, Jesse held his ground and just stared down at him with eyes that betrayed no emotion, no thought. “I don’t understand you! **Why are you so nice to me**?”

“Maybe I just understand you a hell of a lot more than you think I do.”

Hanzo scoffed. “What does that mean?”

“That I get it, Hanzo!” Jesse’s hands, one strong and metal and the other just as firm and flesh, appeared on Hanzo’s shoulders, and Hanzo swayed toward him instinctively. He was so tired, so tired of fighting and keeping up his ire. McCree was supposed to be his comfort zone, where he could relax, let his walls down and just _breathe_. Give affection and receive just as much in return. The struggle to keep from just collapsing against the cowboy filled him with such an ache, he wanted to _scream_.

When Jesse spoke again, his voice was much softer, his drawl deep and enticing. Hanzo wanted to wrap himself in that voice, wear it like a blanket and bury himself away from the world. “I know the way you think. That you have this thing about what you do and don’t deserve because of the past and shit. Hell, **I think you’re just afraid to be happy**. And  _I get it_.”

Hanzo swallowed, unable to look McCree in the eyes yet. His gaze settled on one of his flannel’s buttons, a bit darker than the others. He’d probably had to replace it at some point. The thought of Jesse mending his own clothes with the same hands he used to kill his enemies— _the same hands that curled around Hanzo’s shoulders now—_

“But you gotta realize that I don’t care, darlin’.”

Hanzo’s eyes snapped up at that, and he was stunned to find McCree smiling. “Yeah. You’re all kinds of fucked up, but the thing is, Hanzo: _I signed up for this_. I knew what I was gettin’ into, and I fell in love with ya, anyways.”

Hanzo said nothing, not because he didn’t want to but because he couldn’t find the words to speak. He stared at Jesse’s face, searching for any trace of a lie, but all he saw was genuine honesty. McCree meant every word, loved him even in the face of his flaws. Hanzo wasn’t sure he could even _process_ this.

“Now, I’m willin’ to work things through with you, but I’m gonna need some effort on your end. I’m gonna need you to tell me if I’m pushin’ you too far, and I’m _really_ gonna need ya to not get so pissy with me when I do. If you got boundaries, you gotta tell me, all right? Otherwise, we ain’t gonna work.”

Hanzo swallowed, recognizing the situation for what it was. McCree was leaving the decision up to Hanzo, whether he wanted to stay together or go their separate ways. If he thought they could work things out or just end it while they could still be on good terms. It would be so easy just to push McCree away the same way he’d been cutting ties his whole life. For Jesse’s benefit. For _Hanzo’s_.

But Hanzo was tired of fighting, of breaking every relationship he’d ever forged, and he decided it was just as easy to give in, to nod his head and admit what he really wanted.

“I would like to work things out.”

“Yeah?” Hope gleamed in Jesse’s eyes, and Hanzo just had to smile.

“Yes. Yes, I….” He took a deep breath, lifting his hands from his sides to find comfort in the solidity of McCree’s broad shoulders. “I apologize. I should not have spoken to you like that before. I was… afraid.”

“Must be big if it could spook ya like that,” said McCree, an eyebrow raised.

Hanzo nodded. “Do you not think you would grow sick of me if we shared the same quarters? What if you do not like my living habits? Or if you see too much of me and think it was all a mistake?”

“Ain’t gonna happen,” McCree said with such certainty that Hanzo believed him immediately. “I could never get sick of you, Hanzo. Hell, what I really want is to see you _more_ ; that was why I suggested sharin’ a room.”

“That… makes sense,” Hanzo admitted, nodding. “Very well. Move in immediately.”

“Now, hold on—”

“You have changed your mind?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then what seems to be the problem?”

McCree laughed and bent down to kiss Hanzo. Oh. Oh, that was nice. Hanzo sighed, melting against his cowboy as he’d wanted to do since he found him there. McCree’s hand slid into his hair, untied his ponytail and combed his hair free, and Hanzo all but collapsed.

“The problem is that you’re dead on your feet, Han. I ain’t lettin’ you make any decisions while you’re so damn tired. I don’t want ya regrettin’ anything.”

Hanzo grunted his agreement. That sounded logical, and he wasn’t about to argue. No more arguing. Not with McCree. Genji couldn’t be helped, but perhaps Hanzo would apologize to him as well.

For now, he was ready to sleep. He let McCree pull him over to the bed and start stripping him of his gear, telling Jesse to just leave it all on the floor. That was a problem for the Hanzo of tomorrow. The Hanzo of now just wanted to wrap himself around Jesse, breathe in his scent, feel his heat—

“Stay?” Hanzo asked, far too vulnerable for his liking.

If Jesse noticed, he didn’t bring it up, just carded his fingers through Hanzo’s hair and promised, “No other place I’d rather be, darlin’.”


	32. Genyatta: Do you want to kiss as bad as I do right now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cecilserviceroads said: 29 for Genyatta, please? I am curious about how things would progress if there was a little more sexual interest in a Genyatta promt. 
> 
> I don't really feel like I delivered what you wanted for this one, but I still hope you enjoy it! I just don't see Genji and Zenyatta's relationship as overly sexual, if that makes sense? 
> 
> Also, I changed up the wording of the prompt a bit because it didn’t feel in character.

Genji was going to tell him.

He was going to march right up to his master— _Zenyatta_ , if he didn’t call him by his name, then this was never going to work—sit him down, and… and….

No. No, that was a stupid idea. Genji ran a his hands through his hair, pulling at dark locks with all ten fingers. His reflection looked stressed, anxious, and a little sick, to be honest. Genji took a deep breath, tried to fix his hair, and then dropped his hands to his sides again.

“Okay. Maybe if I say it here first, this will be easier when I’m with my—Zenyatta. When I try to say it to Zenyatta.” His voice trembled, and he took another deep breath to calm himself. He shut his eyes and tried to center his stormy mind, the way Zenyatta had taught him.

Shit. That wasn’t working. Genji groaned and went back to glaring at himself in the mirror. He looked like a fucking idiot. What was he thinking, trying so hard when Zenyatta was just going to politely decline his advance? He should just—just—

Just _what_? He didn’t want to keep going on like this. If he went ahead with his confession, then at least Zenyatta would _know_. Zenyatta would have the opportunity to let him the fuck down, and then Genji could move on with his life.

Perfect.

“Perfect,” said Genji, breathing loudly through his nose. He could feel every ounce of his body, both organic and inorganic, thrumming with nerves, but he powered through to make eye contact with his mirror again.

Man, he looked fucking terrified.

“Okay, let’s try this again.” He heaved a deep sigh, his body slumping a bit. Not relaxing, exactly. Just slumping with defeat. With anticipation of what would certainly happen when he sought out his master. Zenyatta. Zen. Zenny?

No. Zenyatta.

This wasn’t going to go well.

“Okay. So. Master. Zenyatta. You and I have known each other for an, uh… a pretty long time. I probably know you better than—than anyone. Than my brother. Than my friends. Myself. You helped me with that.” Genji smiled a little, his gaze growing far-off. This was only a trial run, so he was allowed to get a little off topic. “I wouldn’t be the person I am today if not for you. You are… entirely remarkable. Unselfish. Wonderful. _Beautiful_. Inside and out, and I…”

Genji took a deep breath. “Somewhere along the way, I started to feel something a little—a little _more_ for you, Zenyatta. I can be having the worst day ever, and just seeing you makes me feel like everything’s going to be all right. That no matter how bad it gets, it has to get better because I have you in my life.

“So what I’m trying to say is that I—that I— _fuck_!” Genji leaned against the bathroom counter, his heart pounding. Zenyatta wasn’t even _there_ , and Genji couldn’t say it. Saying it made it real, and making it real felt like an ending. Was Genji really ready for this feeling to end?

“I… I….” Genji sighed and put his head down. His heart was racing, and he wasn’t even talking to Zenyatta yet. He almost laughed; back when he was completely human, he’d possessed confidence for _days_ , and now? He was quivering thinking about confessing his feelings to his master.

But if he couldn’t even say it to himself—

“I… Zenyatta, I….”

How could he ever hope to say it to—

“ _I love you, Zenyatta_.”

Genji gasped, the sudden weight off his chest startling him. He’d said it. He’d actually fucking said it. All that stressing out, and he’d said it just like that. Right out in the open. Shit.

“I love you. I love you!”

Now that Genji was saying it, he didn’t see what had been the problem to begin with. He was in love with Zenyatta. That wasn’t so hard, was it?

Now if only he could tell—

“ **Do you wish to kiss as much as I do right now**?”

“Wha—” Genji bumped into the counter in his haste to turn around. He would recognize that synthetic voice anywhere, and his fears were confirmed when he found his master floating merrily in the doorway. “Muh— _Master_! What are you doing here?”

“Forgive me for entering unannounced; your door was open. Dr. Ziegler asked me to find you; she wished to run some diagnostic tests on your cybernetics.” Zenyatta’s head tilted to the side slowly, considering. “Must you call me _master_? I am confident in saying that you are no longer my student, having learned everything I am able to teach you.”

“Uh, old habits.” Genji rubbed the back of his neck nervously. A million thoughts ran through his head, overwhelming him, and Genji didn’t even know what all Zenyatta _heard_! Maybe he didn’t hear anything important?

Maybe he only heard the confession? That would be easy to shrug off. Say he was practicing for somebody else. But then what if Zenyatta wanted to know who the somebody else was? Genji would have to lie, and he hated lying to Zenyatta.

He could say McCree? Jesse would roll with it, even if he was already spoken for, and just kindly dismiss him. Yeah. Perfect. He could say he was in love with McCree.

Unless Zenyatta heard his own name, too? Then what the hell was Genji supposed to say? He could—he could make something up? Say he was _practicing to confess to McCree_ , but he was most comfortable if he practiced his speech to Zenyatta?

Oh _shit_! The speech! What if Zenyatta heard everything? Then he would know, and there was no way that Genji would be able to lie his way out of it. Lying was out of the question, anyway! Zenyatta knew him too well and would be able to tell that he was—

“Are you all right?” A cool hand appeared on cheek, and Genji jumped away instinctively. Zenyatta flinched at the response, pulling his hand away immediately, and Genji swallowed the guilt souring his stomach. “… I did not mean to frighten you. I can see that I have invaded your privacy. Please see Dr. Ziegler when you have a free moment.”

With a respectful nod, Zenyatta turned and began making his way to the door. Genji saw the slump to his shoulders and surged forward, hand reaching out to stop him but thinking better of it. Zenyatta paused nonetheless, his back still turned as he waited for Genji to speak. Swallowing, Genji summoned as much courage as he could muster in the face of certain rejection.

Might as well… right?

“How much did you hear?” he asked, his voice quiet. The only indication that Zenyatta even heard him was the quick, interested turn of his orbs.

“You said my name.” Zenyatta turned to look over his shoulder at the trembling ninja. “You said you loved me.”

Genji took a deep breath. No getting out of this. He might as well plough on through. He cleared his throat, shifted. Then he met Zenyatta’s insistent gaze, ignoring the fear and caution that ripped through him at the thought of baring his soul to the one person capable of tearing him apart.

“I did.”

“And you meant it?” A lilt of hope in Zenyatta’s voice gave Genji the nerve he needed to respond.

“I did,” said Genji, and then tried again. “I _do_. I am very much in love with you… Zenyatta.”

Zenyatta said nothing for a long moment, though his body did relax. Genji waited, patient in knowing that Zenyatta was sifting through his own thoughts, deciding on a suitable reaction. He probably didn’t want to break Genji’s heart, so he wanted to let him down as gently as possible. Genji appreciated that.

He was not prepared for Zenyatta to turn around and approach him slowly, as if taking great care not to spook him again. He held out his hand for Genji’s, and Genji was almost too shocked to give it to him. Long, slender fingers wrapped around Genji’s, holding his hand as if it might be the most precious object in the world.

“Genji… I had very little to do with the person you are today. I merely showed you the path you needed to take; it was _your_ choice to take that path and grow into who you are now. That determination to better yourself in spite of what had happened to you—that is what first drew me to you. That is what… has caused me to feel something more for you as well.”

Genji’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything. His heart was racing, pounding a raging beat in his chest and in his temple; he had to struggle to hear Zenyatta’s quiet, carefully chosen words, but hear them he did. He hung on every syllable, every note of that voice as realization dawned on him.

“I have wondered how to convey what I was feeling to you for quite some time, but I dared not divulge them when you still needed my guidance. I could not allow my emotions to cloud my judgement., but now… you no longer need me.”

“I will always need you,” Genji replied immediately, his mouth forming the words before his brain even registered that he spoke them.

Zenyatta laughed fondly. “Not as your master. I am now free to confess that I….”

Genji held his breath, waiting, _waiting_ —

“I am very much in love with you as well, Genji.”

Genji sagged with relief, his head bowing forward as his eyes slid shut. He gripped Zenyatta’s hand, hoping to convey that he needed a minute to absorb this, and Zenyatta didn’t rush him. He never did, just let Genji work through what he needed. It was part of the reason why he loved him so much.

After a moment, he was able to look up at Zenyatta and smile. He didn’t know where they would go from here, but Genji wasn’t afraid anymore. He knew he was in Zenyatta’s capable, wonderful, experienced hands, and he—

“Is this the part where we kiss?” Zenyatta asked curiously. He sounded like he was trying to control his tone, and Genji wasn’t exactly sure how to take that. Did Zenyatta not want to kiss him? Did Zenyatta _want_ to kiss him?

“We can,” he said slowly, “or we don’t have to.” But when he noticed the slight drop of Zenyatta’s shoulders, Genji added, “Do you want to?”

“I—” Zenyatta fell silent for a few seconds. “It is something I would like to try.”

“You mean… you’ve never kissed anybody before?” Genji blinked in surprise. He thought Genji was a _breathtaking_ omnic; how could the world have let him go so long without being kissed?

Did kissing even work the same for omnics? Genji liked to think so, but he couldn’t be quite certain. Not without trying.

And Genji liked trying new things.

“I have not,” Zenyatta confessed quietly. “You are the first that I have ever… _wanted_ to kiss.”

Genji heard what Zenyatta left unspoken: _The first that I have ever loved_. He could feel those words in the tentative curl of Zenyatta’s smooth fingertips as they trailed along Genji’s cheek, almost reverently. In the soothing chime of his orbs as they glowed about Zenyatta’s neck.

Without thinking about it much more, Genji leaned in to press his mouth to the smooth crease where Zenyatta’s lips would have been. Zenyatta gasped and went very still, and Genji worried for a moment that he should have given warning before advancing.

But then Zenyatta was leaning into him, and it was… startling how _right_ this felt. Genji had kissed many before this, and they had all been the same: messy, coordinated, something to do with his mouth while his body performed other tasks.

But this—this was so _different_ from all those other kisses. With Zenyatta, it was warm, unrushed, natural.

Like coming home.

Genji kept it brief, a bit eager to hear what Zenyatta thought. Did he feel as much as Genji did in that simple kiss? Did he feel _anything_?

If Genji hadn’t known better, he would have worried that Zenyatta had shut down completely. The nine lights still glowed on his forehead, but all other signs of life had vanished. Even his orbs had stopped their natural spinning, now resting motionless about his neck. A spike of concern shot through Genji; he’d never seen his master so affected before.

“Zenyatta? Are you okay?” Genji swallowed and asked the question he _really_ wanted an answer to. “Did you—did you _like_ that?”

“I—” Zenyatta’s orbs whirred back to life, contemplating, _scheming_. He leaned close again, pressing his forehead against Genji’s as he collected himself. When he began anew, his voice had taken on a playful tone. “I cannot say. Perhaps we should try again? A few more times, just to be certain.”

And Genji smiled, his heart full of love and peace. “Perhaps we should.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to send requests to neonganymede.tumblr.com !


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